Small Annoying Root Vegetables: Episode 314159
by Chickens4Brains
Summary: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a Beatles fanatic, a turnip-cultivating Sith Lord, and a man who was obsessed with calculating Pi. With a cast like that, things were bound to get interesting sooner or later.
1. Canned Beets

Small Annoying Root Vegetables: Episode 3.1415926.  
  
  
  
3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640286 20899862803482.  
  
Dot, dot, dot.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe sighed, set the five-hundred-sixty-first pen of the week down, and scratched his nose with one very ink-stained hand.  
  
2.5 billion digits down, and still no recognizable pattern. Sometimes, the unfairness of it all gave Shnibbidy Bob a huge headache. Forty years he had sat, day in, day out, with a pen and paper and only the will to be the first man ever to discover a pattern in Pi keeping him alive and sane. And yet, he was still waiting for the payoff. Pi was such an ornery decimal.  
  
Not that he had much else to do, living for years behind renowned Sith Lord Darth Vader's refrigerator. At least the quest for Pi kept him busy. Aside from sneaking out once or twice a month to order immense bales of binder paper-he claimed to be single-handedly responsible for the complete deforestation of the planet Vuebegon-there wasn't much excitement to living behind a refrigerator, even if it was a very nice, high-tech refrigerator, and belonged to a mass murderer, at that.  
  
Still, he often wished that he had never stopped to pick up that blue marble, the blue marble that had opened up a large gash in space-time and sucked him through into this strange universe before he could so much as yell for help. He much preferred his vegetable garden and loyal, slobbery Labrador retriever to a refrigerator in a giant spherical battle station out in the middle of space.  
  
Ah well. No use wishing for what would never come to pass.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob stuffed the full sheet of paper through the crack in the wall behind him, pulled out a fresh sheet, and returned to his life's work.  
  
.53421170679821480. ________________________________________________________________________  
  
"Lord Vader!"  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"The admiral requests your presence in the lower detention block, in the shortest order you can manage."  
  
"Tell him that it'll be a couple of hours, maybe a little longer."  
  
"Er, he was thinking more along the lines of a couple of minutes, my lord."  
  
"That's just too bad for him then. Do you have any idea how long my poor petunias have gone without water?"  
  
"Lord Vader-"  
  
"And the geraniums?"  
  
"Lord Vader-"  
  
"And most of all, my precious, precious turnips?"  
  
"Lord Vader, for heavens' sake, your garden can survive for a couple more minutes! This is urgent!"  
  
Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith and self-appointed horticulturalist, set his blue watering can down among the potted petunias and glared at the young lieutenant who was standing nervously in the greenhouse doorway.  
  
"What," he said softly, his voice dripping with menace, "could be more important than my root vegetables?"  
  
"Well, Lord Vader, you see, er, the prisoner we picked up on that spaceship two days ago refuses to talk. It's obvious she knows something that we don't, but she won't squeal, blast her. We were thinking that your.methods.might be more effective."  
  
"Aaah!" Had anyone been able to see through the black mask that shielded Darth Vader's face, they would have seen his face crack into a big smile. "I see what your admiral is thinking. And a fine thought it is, too. No one extracts information better than Darth Vader. Hey, XY- 1.234!" Vader spun around to face the small black android cowering behind the rows of turnip plants. "Bring out.the canned beets!"  
  
The lieutenant at the door gasped in horror and staggered back.  
  
"No! You aren't going to use the canned beets on the girl, are you?"  
  
"The admiral wants the information. The quickest way to get it: canned beets.  
  
Run along now, and tell the admiral I'm coming."  
  
The lieutenant saluted hastily and dashed as quickly as he could from the greenhouse. ________________________________________________________________________  
  
The girl everyone was making such a fuss over was nothing much to look at. Five-foot-three with murky brown hair coiled into strange doughnut-like constructs and very odd clothes, she didn't seem like a likely person to carry precious rebel secrets. Of course, no one Darth Vader knew dressed like she did, so she could be some new type of religious fanatic joined up with the Rebel Alliance. Her pants were blue denim, flared out at the ankles with bright orange flowers sewn on-she liked plants, Vader thought, maybe he could win her over with gardening talk-and she was wearing a tattered-looking T-shirt with a picture of four men splashed across the front and the The Beatles scrawled above it in curly writing. Really quite unheard of, and Darth Vader knew a lot of people with funny dressing habits.  
  
"Lord Vader," the admiral said-why did everyone seem to start sentences with "Lord Vader" around here? "That's the rebel ringleader. She won't talk, and we've tried all we've got in the regular informational department. I presume you brought. Ah, you're starting out tough, are you? I'd have thought you'd at least start with the canned spinach before going for the whole treatment."  
  
"I didn't want to waste time," Vader barked. "My turnips need watering, so let's get this over with."  
  
"You people are delusional," the girl cut in, "if you think I'm going to say anything and betray the people who took me in even though I was a little out of the norm."  
  
"Ah, delusional are we?" the admiral sneered. "Just wait and see what the Dark Lord has in store for you!"  
  
The girl glanced at him scornfully.  
  
"I can't even hear what you're asking me, you know," she snorted, grabbing one of the odd coils of hair and yanking it away from her head. To Vader's surprise, it came off easily, something black and padded embedded in the middle suddenly visible.  
  
It's a headphone set, he realized, she's glued her hair to the headphones for some odd reason.  
  
"Your precious Beatles are not going to keep you from revealing the location of the rebel base." The admiral seemed to have a record- breaking library of smirks at his disposal. "Lord Vader! The beets!"  
  
"Immediately," Vader rumbled, pulling the jar of beets out of his billowing cloak. "Rebel scum, cower before the force of.CANNED BEETS!"  
  
The girl gasped, turned pale, and shrank back.  
  
"N-n-not, not canned beets?" she stammered.  
  
"N-n-not canned beets?" stammered one of the stormtrooper guards at the door.  
  
Vader smiled again.  
  
"Yes. Canned beets. XY-1.234! The spoon, please!"  
  
"We'd better go," hissed the guard. "This is going to get really, really ugly."  
  
The two guards glanced nervously at Darth Vader, then scuttled back down the corridor.  
  
"Now." Vader cracked open the can and dug the large spoon into the goopy mass of beets, drawing it out piled high with purple substance and sticky syrup. He took one predatory step towards his victim, brandishing the spoon. "Talk!"  
  
All the girl managed was a squeak.  
  
The admiral beat a hasty retreat.  
  
"No response?" Vader took another step forward.  
  
In went the spoonful of canned beets.  
  
The high-pitched screams that followed caused the little man behind the refrigerator two floors down to cringe and cover his ears. ________________________________________________________________________ 


	2. Beatrice

Han Solo was very cold. Very, very, very cold. In fact, so cold that the woolen hat, earmuffs, and fluffy anorak that had mysteriously appeared in his hands as he was walking along the crowded nighttime streets of Mos Eisely didn't do much to warm him up. Corellians just weren't made for the Tatooine climate. Hot in the daytime, almost hot enough to make him want to take off his maroon angora sweater-not that he ever would. He hadn't taken off the sweater since he was a baby, and he wasn't sure he could stand living without it. And now this at night. He never could stand deserts.  
  
Han bumped into one of the passerby on the street-he couldn't see where he was going, as he was staring, enthralled, at a window display of fine imported jewelry. When he looked down again to see who he had hit, he noticed a nice gold pocket watch dangling from his stiff, frozen fingers.  
  
Oh my, he thought, bewildered. A gold and ivory pocket watch. Now how ever could it have gotten there? I wonder who would have been kind enough to toss a cold, unemployed man an expensive watch on the street.  
  
Attributing his find to a lucky turn of fate, Han dropped the watch into one of the anorak's fur-lined pockets and strolled off down the street.  
  
"Hey! You there! Stop, thief!"  
  
Han spun around. A tall, studly young man was charging down the street at top speed toward him, tossing pedestrians aside and leaving many young women's heads turned in his wake. Instincts told Han that now would be a good time to bolt. But how odd; he must have been mistaken for someone else. The thief certainly wouldn't apply to him.  
  
He bolted. The man caught up with him anyway.  
  
He stopped. The man stopped.  
  
"Just what," the young man growled finally. "Do you think you are doing?"  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Han said evenly. He seemed to have this kind of conversation very frequently. "If you have spent too much time over your beers, please find one of your friends and take it out on him, not on innocent passerby. If you have a genuine issue with me, please lower your voice so we can discuss this without half the population of Mos Eisely watching us."  
  
"Oh, half already is," the young man assured him gloomily. "The female half. I have that effect on females. But seriously," His voice sharpened. "give back my pocket watch. This instant."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't play games. You stole my pocket watch. That thing's been in the family for centuries, and you just stole it."  
  
"Well, I wouldn't have it if you hadn't tossed it to me across the street," Han retorted.  
  
The young man looked about to growl something decidedly unpleasant in return, but checked himself, paused, and nodded slowly.  
  
"I see," he said sagely. "A kleptomaniac."  
  
"-In a sweater." Han finished wearily. Why did everyone seem to leap to that conclusion? "That's what it says on my Wanted poster."  
  
"Sweater?" The young man raised one dubious eyebrow. "When someone says 'kleptomaniac', 'sweater' isn't the first word that leaps into my head."  
  
"Because of this." Han rolled up the sleeve of his anorak enough to expose the line of hideous maroon that was the cuff of his precious sweater, and let the statement hang.  
  
"Well. I suppose we all have our quirks.Now be so kind as to give back the watch!"  
  
Reluctantly Han pulled the watch out of his pocket and handed it to its previous owner.  
  
"Now, I'm trying to decide whether or not to report it when a meet a Wanted, sweater-wearing kleptomaniac on the street-"  
  
"Oh, Beatrice!" A shrill, singsong female voice grated across Han's ears. Around the corner of the nearest building stepped a young lady, blonde like the man in front of him, probably some sort of model. "The holofilm's about to start, Beatrice.  
  
Han looked from the lady to the man and back. There was only one possible solution. The handsome, blonde, surfer-type man in front of him was called.Beatrice? (Of course, there is no such thing as surfing in that galaxy, unless you count Pakrian Mind Surfing, in which two old men with long beards sit across from each other and pretend that they are flying. The point of this game is to see which of the old men goes crazy first, and is therefore proclaimed the winner because he generally starts running around screaming and clubs the other old man, still in his meditative state, to death with a toilet seat or something similar. The point of this tangential venture is that Han Solo obviously did not liken the young man to a surfer, but in this galaxy he would have resembled the legendary California studs.) And his name was Beatrice.  
  
"B-B-Beatrice?" Han sputtered, choking on the rude guffaw that was stubbornly attempting to spurt out of his mouth. "Your name is Beatrice?" Beatrice rolled his eyes. "Go on, laugh," he said with a martyred air. "It's not my fault that my name sounds like some old- fashioned schoolgirl's. My old dad was so excited when I was born that his glasses fell off, and he couldn't see that I was actually a boy. By the time they realized that I was not the dear little daughter they had been expecting, the name Beatrice had stuck. It was on my birth certificate, and nobody wanted to bother to change it."  
  
Han snickered. Beatrice glared.  
  
"Oh, Beatrice!" Another girl's voice this time, a deeper, huskier one. She was also a model type, with curly dark hair and a very long nose. "The holofilm's starting!"  
  
"I'm coming!" Beatrice yelled, then turned quickly back to Han. "Okay, I have a couple of dates so I'm not going to report you to the planetary security. Nice to meet you. Evening, kleptomaniac."  
  
Beatrice strolled off down the street.  
  
Han plodded off in the other direction, hands buried in his pockets. Was he really a kleptomaniac? That would explain all the Wanted posters. How horrible! What an awful person he must be to know! A kleptomaniac.  
  
He trudged aimlessly around and found himself a few hours later standing in front of a large, dark-painted building with a sign above the door reading: Dr. Namby Pamby, Psychiatrist.  
  
Dr. Namby Pamby was used to wild-eyed people in odd clothing bursting into his office at all hours of the night, so when the door was knocked off its hinges by another specimen of desolate humanity he merely stood up, turned off his datapad, and beckoned the stranger inside.  
  
"Hello, sir," he said pleasantly. "How can I help you tonight?"  
  
"I think," the man said restlessly, "that I'm a kleptomaniac."  
  
"And what makes you think that?" Dr. Pamby said, keeping his voice level and reassuring.  
  
"There are signs up all over the city with my picture on them, and they say that I'm a kleptomaniac."  
  
"And is everything that people say about you true?"  
  
"Well." the man considered for a moment. "No. I guess not."  
  
Han Solo turned and walked out, feeling much satisfied. Two weeks ago, Luke Skywalker had sworn that he would give up his drinking habits. He had driven his battered landspeeder out into the middle of the Tatooine desert, loaded with all his crates of undiluted lemon juice, and stopped over a canyon where no one could possibly find his load and reclaim it. Then, with great satisfaction, he had tipped all the lemon juice over the side of the landspeeder and watched it smash on the rocks far below. That had been the end of it. No longer would he be dependant on the little flask of lemon juice to give him enough spark to make it through the day.  
  
Now he regretted it. Bitterly.  
  
Dr. Namby Pamby was used to wild-eyed people in odd clothing bursting into his office at all hours of the night, so when the door was knocked off its hinges by another specimen of desolate humanity he merely stood up, turned off his data pad, and beckoned the stranger inside.  
  
"Hello, sir," he said pleasantly. "How can I help you tonight?"  
  
"Listen." The stranger cleared the room in a single stride and grabbed Dr. Pamby by his collar. Well-trained in human psychology, Dr. Pamby remained silent and unintimidated. "I need your help. I have a dependence. A major dependence, and it's causing me big problems."  
  
"Ah. What is it? Alcohol? Drugs?" Dr. Pamby had dealt with this man's kind many times before. "I can help you."  
  
To Dr. Pamby's surprise, the man shook his head.  
  
"Worse than that," he whispered. "Much worse. It's.lemon juice. I can't stop drinking lemon juice. Dr. Pamby, normal people are dependent on alcohol and drugs. But there is nobody else out there in the galaxy who has a lemon juice problem. I need you to help me stop it."  
  
"Well.er.I'd say.er." Dr. Pamby was stunned out of speech in spite of himself. "I'd say.get some exercise, some more excitement, something to take your mind off lemon juice. Go and take a trip somewhere.er.yeah."  
  
It was not the best cure Dr. Pamby had ever prescribed, but it appeared to satisfy the man.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Luke Skywalker turned and walked out, feeling much satisfied.  
  
Princess Leia, formally known in her home town of Grand Forks, North Dakota as Leah, the Local Beatles Freak, was a tougher cookie than she looked, despite her bellbottom jeans. Humming the tune of "Eleanor Rigby," she swiftly recovered from her ordeal with the canned beets, fashioned a lockpick from the volume control of her headphones, and escaped from her cell. She somehow found her way into Darth Vader's deluxe kitchen, where an unusual, ink-blotted little man behind the refrigerator showed her the best way out of the station. Hijacking a ship from under some officers' noses, she flew down to Tatooine, the nearest planet, and promptly decided that she was either dreaming or completely hallucinatory. When pinching herself, slapping herself, and throwing herself off a cliff, all to the tune of the Beatles' greatest hits, failed to produce any results, she decided to go see a psychiatrist.  
  
Dr. Namby Pamby was used to wild-eyed people in odd clothing bursting into his office at all hours of the night, so when the door was knocked off its hinges by another specimen of desolate humanity he merely stood up, turned off his data pad, and beckoned the stranger inside.  
  
"Hello, ma'am," he said pleasantly. "How can I help you tonight?"  
  
A woman wearing the oddest clothing he had seen in his long life of counseling freaks crossed the room and flopped down on the heavily padded couch like she owned it.  
  
"Hello," she said after a moment. "I'm crazy and you don't exist."  
  
Psychiatrists did not have preconceptions, but Dr. Pamby had definitely not been expecting this.  
  
"And what makes you say that?" Dr. Pamby fell back on the time- honored What-the-heck-is-going-on-with-you statement.  
  
"Because ten years ago I was at a Beatles concert in Grand Forks, North Dakota, and now, ten years later, I'm sitting on a remote planet in a different Galaxy after escaping from a Sith Lord's big space station. Obviously, none of these things exist. People always said I'd go crazy if I kept listening to the Beatles, and now I've gone around the bend."  
  
"Well, all I can say is, I certainly exist, because-"  
  
At that moment, a large warp appeared in space-time, and a large man with a handlebar moustache and a French accent drifted across the ceiling and cried, "I think, therefore I am," before vanishing on the other side of the room.  
  
"He said it," Dr. Pamby said triumphantly. "I think, therefore I am."  
  
"I still think I'm nuts, and that you are imaginary."  
  
"Well, everyone is entitled to their opinions."  
  
"I guess so. And you know, going nuts isn't so bad."  
  
Princess Leia, or Leah the Local Beatles Freak, turned and walked out the door, feeling much satisfied.  
  
That was how the three of them wound up together, in the same building, just in time for Beatrice to be calling for some heroes to save the galaxy. What a lucky chance they all happened to be crazy.  
  
Far above, in the darkness of space, the little man behind the refrigerator reached the 27 billionth digit of Pi. 


	3. Of Elevators and Sushi

5342117079821480851328230470938440955058223172535940812848111745028410270193 8521105...  
  
Boredom was something Shnibbidy Bob Joe had long since learned to live with. Yet still there were times when the immense life's work of calculating Pi seemed to be not worth the effort. He got down like that, and he would stuff his paper and pen into the crack in the wall and swear he would never write another number. He always recovered though. There wasn't much else to do behind a Sith Lord's refrigerator.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob set down his pen and leaned back, deciding to eavesdrop instead of work. Darth Vader was having a heated argument with some other admiral character, in which the words "space-time" and "vegetables" seemed to be appearing frequently. Remembering his own vegetable patch and the blue marble, Shnibbidy Bob tuned in his ears.  
  
Luke Skywalker trotted forward a couple of steps as the elevator door slid open with a self-satisfied whirr and stepped into the leather- surfaced, padded elevator. He wondered briefly why Dr. Pamby would have paid so much money to get goose-down padding on the elevator walls, but that detail was, of course, secondary to the appearance of the other two elevator passengers.  
  
To put it bluntly and cruelly, they looked even crazier than he was.  
  
The girl was wearing flared denim pants and a faded T-shirt, as aforesaid, although we must make allowances for Luke's character. The man was wearing a long overcoat, over a fluffy anorak, over what appeared to be a tattered maroon angora sweater. Several expensive-looking pieces of jewelry dangled from the numerous coat pockets. He was immediately wary, of the man because it was unusual to see a guy in such beaten-up clothes wearing diamonds, of the girl because she was staring around with the vacant air of someone observing some imaginary land, and of both of them because they had obviously both been to the psychiatrist.  
  
Oh well. Neither probably had dangerous lemon juice-drinking habits.  
  
Luke stepped onto the elevator, exchanged a brief salutary nod with them and pressed the button L for lobby. The man nodded back. The girl nodded, then turned away and muttered, "Mom, Dad, if you can hear me I'm alive and I'm not in North Dakota anymore."  
  
He took care to stand as far away from the crazy girl as he could.  
  
Of course, this meant that he had to stand nearer to the diamond- jewelry man. Luke decided to stay on his guard. Sure enough, a couple minutes into the ride, he felt someone scrabbling around in his coat pocket, then felt a toothpick being detached and lifted clear of the fabric.  
  
"Hey!" He spun around. "And what do you think you're doing."  
  
"What?" The man looked genuinely bewildered. That just made him more dangerous.  
  
"You were in my pocket a minute ago."  
  
"Oh, sorry!" the man gasped. "That was your pocket? I could have sworn it was one of mine! I guess that means this is yours, too." He handed back the toothpick. "Pity. It was a very nice toothpick."  
  
"Mine, not yours," Luke said firmly. The girl snorted in the background.  
  
At that moment, there was a sudden, heart-stopping, stomach-expelling lurch, and the elevator jerked to a halt.  
  
Mid-floor.  
  
Good lord, why did everything seem to happen to him?  
  
"Oh, lovely," the girl growled scathingly. "Really nicely planned, getting me, an innocent schizophrenic, stuck on an elevator with a kleptomaniac and..." She peered closer at Luke. "...someone who has an expression like he's been drinking lemon juice all his life."  
  
Luke turned red from his scalp to his toes. How could she possibly have known..?  
  
"I'm not a kleptomaniac," the man said defensively. "You can't believe everything everyone says about you."  
  
"You are my hallucination," the girl shot back. "Therefore, you are not entitled to have opinions."  
  
"Whoever is what," Luke broke in, "we are all stuck in an elevator in a psychiatric ward and could possibly be stuck here for several weeks."  
  
"Such a nice thought." The girl glared at him.  
  
There was a loud and dramatic clunk as the elevator shifted a little further down the shaft. It sounded as though the cable was breaking, as well. Just his luck. He wished he had some lemon juice with him.  
  
"Passengers of the elevator," chimed an annoyingly cheerful voice from over the intercom. "Please do not be alarmed. The elevator cable is still attached by several strands of wire! If you move very, very little, we may be able to rescue at least one of you before the cable snaps completely! The lucky one could be you! Do not despair!" The annoyingly cheerful voice moved away for a moment, muttering, "Oh heavens, I hate having to do this sort of encouragement thing," followed by a still more ambiguous, "kill, kill, kill..." The three glanced at one another; it seemed that the annoyingly cheerful voice was perhaps not quite as cheerful as would be thought. But, after a moment, the voice returned, as peppy as before.  
  
"Hang on down there!" it chirped. "We're sending support personnel down to get you out right now. In a few minutes, one of you will be fine. Count on it. I'm SOS-180, your operator, signing off."  
  
There was a crackle of static, and the intercom switched off.  
  
"Well, that was helpful," snarled the man. " 'One of you will be fine', honestly, how do we decide who lives and who doesn't?"  
  
"We don't listen to that bratty android at all, that's what we do," Luke said briskly. "Let them send their support personnel down all they want, we can get out by ourselves." I wish I had some lemon juice, I wish I had some lemon juice. "See here, there's a trapdoor on the roof of the elevator. If we can get that open, we can climb up onto the cable before it breaks."  
  
"Good point." The girl considered for a moment. "Only two problems. If we move too much, the cable will break entirely. And how are we supposed to get up on the ceiling to pop the trapdoor?"  
  
"Someone could sit on my shoulders," the man suggested. "And we'll...we'll just not move too much."  
  
Luke nodded, as there didn't appear to be an unmanageable number of holes in the logic. It was settled that the girl, being the lightest of the three, would climb onto the kleptomaniac's shoulders and open the trapdoor. She would then climb up onto the still-whole cable, and help pull the other two through after her. The plan was so simple that Luke didn't see why they hadn't thought of it in the first place.  
  
Like lightning they had the trapdoor open, and the girl was shinnying like a monkey up the cable. The elevator rocked from side to side, and there was an ominous twang as another wire snapped. Now the elevator and its two remaining passengers were suspended by exactly three pieces of steel wire. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable fifteen minutes Luke had ever spent, but at least their plan was working.  
  
The kleptomaniac was up the cable as well in short order, hanging onto the schizophrenic girl's ankles. Now, at last, it was Luke's turn to get his rear out of the swaying elevator.  
  
Hup, one. Luke got a good grip on the kleptomaniac's leather boots and hopped up once, preparing for the big haul. Another piece of wire snapped with a low whine. There were exactly two strips of metal between him and death.  
  
Hup, two. Luke bounced again. The elevator swayed again, banging against the elevator shaft's walls. Another wire snapped. His life clung to a single wire.  
  
Hup, three. With an almighty heave, Luke pulled himself up by his arms, the kleptomaniac pulled up with his knees, the girl yowled as the combined weight of two men descended on her ankles, and all three scurried up the cable to safety. And a lucky thing it was, too, because the last jerk on the elevator had snapped the final thread, and now the freed elevator plummeted down story after story into the dark subterranean depths of the psychology building, landing at last with a crash and a plume of acrid smoke.  
  
All three of them were alive.  
  
Only then did they become aware of the voices from the mouth of the shaft far above their heads.  
  
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," the annoyingly cheerful voice was saying. "I'm sorry, sir, it appears that we've got here to late, the elevator's already collapsed. Oh, I'm so sorry, good lord, I hope there aren't going to be any lawsuits over this because then I will have to kill will have to be fired."  
  
"SOS-180," a male human voice snapped. "This is your fault, and it's up to you to fix it. There's a very faint possibility that they're still alive down there, so it's up to you to go down and find out."  
  
"Surely you don't mean me, sir!" The android's voice filled with a genuine panic. "I'm not trained for this sort of thing, I couldn't go down by the cable will murder, cold murder, cold death, I'd fall and be reduced to my basest components!"  
  
"Then so mote it be," said the human voice grimly. Seconds later, a wailing, human-like golden android came flying over the shaft's mouth and plummeted down through the empty air, flailing hopelessly with metal limbs.  
  
"Hey!" the kleptomaniac shouted. "We're all right down here, what did you do that to your droid for?"  
  
"Don't stand and talk!" The girl kicked him in the nose with her boot heel. "Grab the droid as he comes past us!"  
  
All three stretched out their arms, and, as the android came flying past, they reached out and grabbed him by whatever limb happened to be nearest. Though the momentum set the cable swinging, the catch was successful. Everything was going perfectly.  
  
The first law listed in the great philosopher Seaborgium's book, Some Cynical and Unpleasant Observations I Decided to Write Down One Midsummer Morning, happens to be: If everything is going perfectly, you've obviously overlooked something. (Coincidentally, Seaborgium is also the author of the renowned book, Cooking for the Criminally Insane, but that story is for another chapter to tell.)  
  
My point is, they had unfortunately overlooked something.  
  
The elevator, as chance would have it, had been loaded with several jugs of highly volatile substance by a passing arsonist on his way down from Dr. Pamby's office, and was now blazing merrily at the bottom of the shaft. And, while they had been standing there waiting to recover their wind, the flames had crept up higher and higher, and were now pleasantly warming their toes like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. However, their toes did not happen to be chestnuts, and were definitely not keen on getting roasted over an open fire. Luke's toes in particular, which were closest to the flame, were very insistent about this, and they kept wiggling in unusual directions trying to convince whatever god was listening that they were not chestnuts, and therefore did not need to be roasted.  
  
"Start climbing!" he screamed at the girl. "Like, now, so that I don't turn into a roasted chestnut here!"  
  
"I'm trying!" she wailed in response, "but I have three hundred pounds hanging from my ankles!"  
  
Nonetheless she began laboriously making her way up the cable, towards the faint patch of light and hope that was the shaft's exit to the roof. The kleptomaniac added his efforts to hers, and slowly Luke was pulled out of the range of the fire, to the tune of the golden droid's yowls. Hand over hand, foot over foot, they climbed and climbed and all of a sudden they found that they were on the roof of the psychiatry building, and that they were all alive.  
  
"Well," the girl said, dusting off her hands. "Well, that's one way to spend an evening."  
  
"No kidding," Luke groaned. "I-I want some lemon juice." Instantly he clapped his hand over his mouth, horrified at what he had just revealed. No one in the Galaxy had a lemon juice dependency. Only him, and he was crazy. He turned a beet red.  
  
The kleptomaniac only shrugged, however, and said, "Hey, well, lemon juice may not be exactly what I was thinking of, but I'm hungry. Let's go get dinner; there are bound to be some places open even this late." "Spectacular idea, kleptomaniac!" The girl grinned. "Tell you what, let's go get some sushi. Sushi's the best food you can get, and there's bound to be some sushi bar around here somewhere. There were even sushi bars in North Dakota, and that's saying something..."  
  
She turned away and began scanning the lighted rooftops of Mos Eisly for some sign that bore any trace of Japanese writing or words.  
  
"Two things," the kleptomaniac growled. "One, my name's not 'kleptomaniac'. Two, I'm not a kleptomaniac. Three, what in the Galaxy is sushi?"  
  
"Oh, sorry kleptomaniac," she said absently. "And that was three things, not two."  
  
The great philosopher Seaborgium once said: "There are only three types of people in this world: those who can count, and those who can't." At least, he did say it, until he realized that every stand-up comedian this side of the planet Hoth had used the same joke at least twice in their career, at which point he went mad and started prowling through the underbelly of Coruscant begging people to bake him into a lemon tart. This also happens to be completely irrelevant to the story, so I shall now return to Luke Skywalker and his insane new friends on the roof.  
  
"Yeah," Luke echoed. "What's sushi?"  
  
"Fish, you dingbat," the girl snapped, waving her fingers at him in exasperation. "Raw fish, you know, specially prepared. It's very good, take my word for it."  
  
"Well, it will certainly be an experience," the golden droid chirped. It was the first time he had spoken since their arrival on the rooftop. His voice was still bright and cheerful, despite his having been recently thrown down an elevator shaft and barely rescued from the fate of a chestnut on a chilly winter's night. It annoyed Luke intensely. "Even if sushi isn't for you, at least you'll know that it isn't."  
  
The droid's voice trailed off, and a weird red glow crept into his optical sensors. "Raw sushi," he hissed under his automated breath. "Slice, slice, slice..."  
  
Then, as quickly as it had come, the red glow vanished, and he was the normal cheerful golden android again.  
  
"Apologies," he said cheerfully. "I get odd spells like that sometimes. Never could understand it."  
  
Luke shrugged, nodded, and smiled the same nervous kind of smile that an Egyptian might have upon seeing the Red Sea split suddenly into two when an old man waved his stick at it.  
  
"Anyway." The girl was already climbing down onto the fire escape. "Let's head out...er...who...and...who?"  
  
"Luke Skywalker," Luke supplied helpfully.  
  
"Han Solo." The kleptomaniac said. "They call me the Kleptomaniac in a Sweater."  
  
"SOS-180!" the droid chirruped, attempting a salute with his mechanical arm. "At your service! And who do I have the honor of addressing?"  
  
"Leah, only everyone keeps spelling it funny," the girl said. "I'm either Princess Leia, or Leah, the Local Beatles Freak, depending on who you ask. C'mon, everybody, let's go get dinner."  
  
It took a while. Sushi bars were not particularly common in Mos Eisly. In fact, there seemed to be only one in the entire city, and that one they had bypassed earlier because it didn't look like the total square footage would accommodate three adult humans and one human-shaped droid. However, Leah the Beatles Freak/ Princess Leia was determined to have sushi, so in the end they decide to try and fit through.  
  
It was called the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar, and it was wedged between a dentist's office and the largest pawnshop any of them had ever seen. It covered a couple of warehouse-lengths. In fact, that particular pawnshop boasted the title of "Galaxy's Largest Supplier of Useless and Semi-Useless Junk," but that, too, has little relation to this story. It appeared, however, that the pawnshop had eaten up all the space that the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar had once possessed. The bar's large neon sign was posted above an oversized rat hole in the wall, only just large enough to admit an adult human.  
  
But in they went, or crawled, attracting several stares from passerby at the sight of three pairs of fancy boots sticking out of a hole in the wall.  
  
Much to their relief, the bar opened up a great deal once they were inside. They appeared to be in a sort of lobby, with scenes of sea creatures painted on the walls and an ornate carved silver plaque above the door proudly proclaiming:  
  
Yoshimoto Sushi Bar: The only place in the Galaxy where you can talk to squid.  
  
Since no one was quite sure what to make of this unusual slogan, they decided to ignore it.  
  
"Ready?" Luke straightened out his dusty shirt.  
  
"Ready," the other three echoed. And together they walked under the sign that read The Yoshimoto Sushi Bar and stepped into...well...the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar. 


	4. Things Happen in the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar

Chapter 4  
DISCLAIMER: The majority of animals, vegetables, and minerals playing major roles in this story are not mine. They do belong to some people, but those people are not me, so I really have no legal right to be publishing this epic of madness on the web, but everyone else is, and heck, it is fun. Anyhow, most of the characters belong to Lucasfilm Ltd., with some other characters belonging to The Lord of the Rings and whatever Tolkien calls his company. However, Beatrice, the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar, the Hat of Frosty the Snowman, and likewise the evil cult of Frosty the Snowman, are all mine. Mine, I tell you, mine! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!! (Well, technically they're property of the Shnibbidy League and Shnibbidworks Publishing, but I am Shnibbidworks Publishing and my fellows in the Shnibbidy League have no problem with me using their stuff.)  
  
If anyone uses any of Shnibbidworks' animals, vegetables, or minerals in their stories, the wrath of the chickens will be brought down upon you, and in the last alliance of the ancient Halls of Box, Cockroach, and Chicken you will be the first to fall!  
  
APOLOGY: Sincere apologies to anybody whom I may have left hanging for a long time. I am very bad about keeping track of what I am supposed to be doing. Also, my younger brother, the Royal Steward of my home planet, Vuebegon VII, had to call me in from my business on Earth to take over as King for a while, since there were diplomatic matters that only the true King could handle. The Cilbuper of Ognoc is threatening our last bastion of monarchy in the Vuebegon System again, and I needed to make sure that the President didn't manage to swindle my weaker-willed younger sibling into giving him the planet. I pray that you will find it in your hearts to forgive me for the delay.  
  
Thanks again,  
  
Chickens4Brains  
  
a.k.a. Wellenforf the Gruge, Last Lord of Vuebegon  
  
a.k.a the Champion of the Chickens.  
  
I have way too many alternate personalities.  
  
Happy new year to everyone!  
  
Light, noise, and the overwhelming smell of fish assailed Luke, Han, and Leia (Leah the Local Beatles Freak) as soon as they passed the threshold into the sushi bar. Bar patrons swirled around them in a dazzling collage of bright fabrics and strangely colorful skin. For a moment the three humans only stood attempting to take it all in, while SOS-180 hummed quietly to himself behind them. Visibility was down to a foot or less, the bar was so crowded. It was an awe-inspiring sight.  
  
Luke Skywalker had never seen such a sight in his life. This topped even the three white mice in dark glasses that he had caught behind the refrigerator once when he was a boy. Never had he seen such crowds packed into a single room, nor such an immense array of colors. Disco lights flashed over the dance floor towards the back of the bar, and earsplitting music throbbed in his ears.  
  
Han Solo had never seen such a sight in his life. There was a lot of expensive stuff in the room. He liked expensive stuff. Naturally, he was delighted when a few anonymous but apparently immensely generous people deposited their gold-and-diamond jewelry into his pocket. He smiled, glad to see that there were still some people who would give their valuables to an unemployed man and not insist on a lot of thanks and credit.  
  
Leah the Local Beatles Freak had never seen such a sight in her life. If she remembered correctly, the sushi bars back home in North Dakota generally weren't managed and patronized by the sushi.  
  
This was unusual, Leia decided. Definitely a little out of the norm. The flamboyantly dressed customers that were packed into the room like sardines in a can happened to be real, overgrown sardines. Or salmon. Or sole, or halibut, or octopi. A large group of squid manned the counter, swiftly mixing up custom alcohols for the patrons. A whiting waltzed across the dance floor with a water snail. All of a sudden, Leah from North Dakota was bumping fins with a lot of ocean animals that had no right to be as tall as she was, not to mention breathing air.  
  
"Well, it certainly does look to be an experience, doesn't it?" SOS-180 chirruped from behind them. "Seems like a nice place. And they have the menu walking around so you can see your dinner up close."  
  
SOS-180 leaned over and pinched the fin of a plump trout in a pink cocktail dress, then sniffed it as if to test its freshness.  
  
"I'll take this one," he called up to his human companions. "I've already decided which one I want."  
  
Then, much to SOS-180's embarrassment, the trout shrieked indignantly and landed him a powerful buffet with her fin.  
  
"Oh! Really, how rude!" it huffed, jerking away from SOS-180. "I've already got a boyfriend, thank you, you crude womanizer!"  
  
SOS-180 jumped back as though a bee had stung his metallic nose, and then the odd red mist clouded his optical sensors again. His voice dropped to a vicious, poisonous hiss.  
  
"will take what we want, will not resist or will die.slice.fish.nice fish.death."  
  
Leia exchanged a puzzled look with her insane new friends. SOS-180 obviously had a few layers underneath his cheerful façade. In a moment, however, as the affronted trout stalked off into the crowd, the red mist receded and SOS seemed to be back to his normal self.  
  
"Well, that wasn't very nice of her, was it?" he observed cheerfully. "I'm not sure I like dinners who talk back."  
  
Seeing the three humans eyeing him strangely, he added, "And sorry about what happened a minute ago, I get odd spells like that sometimes. Part of growing old, eh?" He chortled electronically and shuffled off towards another fish.  
  
"Hang on!" Luke grabbed SOS-180's arm before the android could start inspecting any more fish. "Somehow I don't think these fish are the menu. And besides, you can't eat them, anyway, why bother?"  
  
"Why bother?" SOS chirruped indignantly. "Why, for the life experience, of course-"  
  
"Hello gentlemen, lady." An oversized sea bass in what appeared to be a top hat and tailcoat swept up to them on its muscular fins. It bobbed its wide-mouthed head in a courteous greeting. "Pleased to have you here in our humble establishment. Please, right this way..."  
  
The bass beckoned with one willowy forefin and snatched three menus off the counter with the other. Leia turned to her nutcase companions and shrugged. Seeing as she was already hallucinating, she figured they might as well follow the fish and add a little more interest to the evening. For the "life experience," to quote SOS-180. And the sea life did not seem particularly hostile, with the exception of the trout that SOS had felt up earlier. (She was still shooting dirty glances at the party over her tatty feather boa.) Meeting no apparent objections from her companions, Leia shrugged again and headed off into the crowd after the sea bass steward, Han and Luke close at her heels and SOS-180 clanking noisily several feet behind.  
  
"Here you are folks," the bass said brightly, pulling back a chair at a little round table and motioning for Leia to sit down. Leia plopped into the chair and leaned back gratefully, letting out a long, loud breath. This was just beyond weird. Han glanced at her concernedly as he sat down, perhaps wondering at the source of her anxiety. These hallucination people, she decided, really had no measure of normalcy. Of course, they didn't exist, perhaps she couldn't expect them to.  
  
Abruptly, she realized that the bass was still talking.  
  
"...naturally we're very excited to see you here, we don't get many two- leggers around our place. All seem to think it's odd or something." The fish threw up his fins in a dramatic expression of consternation. "We've no idea why. But at any rate, it's nice to see that some people don't let prejudices cloud their mind when it comes to fine dining establishment."  
  
"Well...well," Leia began timidly, unsure how to inform this extraordinary ichthianoid that, by Earth standards, the entire bar was basically on the level with something a stoned hippie might describe. "Well, I'm not exactly knowledgeable about this galaxy yet, so don't hold it against me, but-you know...I haven't seen all that many bars run by sushi around. No offense," she added hastily.  
  
"None taken." The sea bass bowed again. "We are, in fact, the only true sushi bar in this galaxy or any other. The Yoshimoto is truly unique."  
  
"Ah," said Leia.  
  
"It was a brilliant mistake of evolution." The fish took a deep breath, and all three humans sensed a long story forthcoming. (SOS-180 was too busy trying to ignore the murderous voices in his primary control circuit to sense anything.) "A brilliant mistake, that made the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar what it is today. You see, in the early days of the establishment, several milleniums back, this place was actually a bar where you-ugh!-ate raw fish. And then, one unhappy day, the managing family went on a long vacation, and while they were gone, their spaceship encountered an unfortunate accident involving a white rabbit and some asteroids. At any rate, the Yoshimoto was left completely untended, and one by one the tanks began to leak. We knew that in our present state we could not go on living with the tanks of salt water draining every hour, so some of the wiser fish suggested seeding evolution. The lungfish and mudskippers, as well as the crustaceans, got to breed the most according to the lots, and over a period of time all the fish had evolved into amphibians." The bass drew himself up proudly and puffed out his white-vested chest. "Just goes to show the quick thinking of fish during terrible times. And then, well, evolution enabled us to grow bigger, and bigger, and finally we fish fixed up the old sushi bar and started the place running again. And don't we mix up an excellent tequila, yes sir!"  
  
"Oh," said Leia, feeling rather faint. "Isn't that nice."  
  
"Very lovely story." Luke wiped a tear out of the corner of his eye. Whether it was a real tear, or a fake tear designed to encourage discount prices, was anyone's guess. "I never new fish had such keen minds. Truly exemplary behavior in the face of a looming apocalypse." The fish puffed himself up a little more, now resembling something like a water balloon, except that few people could possibly be so desperately bored as to stick a tailcoat on a water balloon.  
  
"Well, good sir, I must thank you for your compliments. Now, can I get you three anything to drink? As I mentioned-"  
  
"Lemon juice, please," Luke answered instantly, a vaguely manic look in his eye.  
  
"Very well." The bass beamed and turned to Han. "For you, sir?"  
  
"Two margaritas," Han responded with a shrug. "With lime and cherries on the side. And the little flag stuck on top. I collect those little things." He shrugged when Luke eyed him strangely.  
  
"Excellent, sir. And you, madam."  
  
Leia sank back against her chair and closed her eyes, trying to pretend that she was back home in North Dakota.  
  
"Whiskey," she said faintly. "A lot of it."  
  
"Thank you very much." The bass tore off the little slip of paper with their orders and stuck it into his deep coat pocket. "And to thank you for your kind attendance despite our differences, as well as your sensitivity to the history of the bar-" He beamed at Luke again-"I believe I shall give you some sort of discount. How about...mmm...seventy-five percent, hey? Always good to save a little money."  
  
The large fish winked, which was rather odd as he hadn't any eyelids, and trundled off into the crowd.  
  
Leia continued to watch the fish's receding back with an expression similar to that of a rabbit staring into the headlights of a lumber truck.  
  
"Okay," she said finally, turning back to her crazy new friends. "Well, that was interesting, when do I wake up in the nice padded room?"  
  
Han looked at her oddly, as though she were speaking gibberish.  
  
Luke looked at her oddly, as though she were speaking gibberish.  
  
"What's up?" She raised her eyebrows. "You're looking at me oddly, as though I were speaking gibberish."  
  
"I dunno." Luke shrugged. "I didn't get the thing about padding, that's all."  
  
Leia was about to open her mouth to explain to her hallucination all about American mental institutions, but was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a lot of burly men wearing red crosses on their chests.  
  
The entire bar fell silent in an instant (with the exception of the pounding disco music) and turned to watch the bizarre spectacle. The whole legion of men came pouring through the front door, yelling and clanking in their heavy chain mail. Hundreds of swords suddenly rent the air (and in some cases the ceiling fans) and polished shields reflected the churning disco lights into bar patrons' eyes with exceptional accuracy. Still more interestingly, there seemed to be no end to the tide of armored men. The entire room was filled, as was the lobby and God knew how much of the street outside.  
  
On closer inspection, made possible by the clearing of the clouds of wood shavings, the horde appeared to be chasing someone. At the head of the immense group was a lithe, dark figure, ducking between the knots of fish and apparently running for his life. The warriors pursued, yelling and waving their swords. Of course this just piqued the interest of the audience even further, and when the dark figure elbowed aside two lobsters and leapt up onto the bar-counter the very air seemed to crackle with gossipy excitement.  
  
Then, abruptly, the figure drew a mighty broadsword, thrust its shining blade aloft, and cried, "Stop!"  
  
Instantly the warriors stopped dead and dropped to their knees. The dark man stood on high on the bar above the humbled masses, tall and proud, with his weapon gleaming like some ancient relic in the disco lights. Godly he seemed, and yet terrible, shrouded suddenly in a spray of glittering gold and green drops of what could have been celestial rain. (He had just knocked over a beer, and several margaritas.) For a moment all was consumed by a reverent silence, with the exception of the BeeGees, who obstinately continued to wail, "Stayin' Alive" over the stereo system. But that mattered little to the awe-struck viewers. Even Leia was a little impressed by the sudden epic magnitude of her hallucinations.  
  
Then a great cry rose from the assembled warriors: "All hail, King Arthur! Long live the King!"  
  
The man on the bar sheathed his sword again and buried his rather shaggy head in his hands. A low rumble of frustration was audible even over the obnoxious disco music. After a moment he raised his head again and spread his arms wide to include the whole mass of knights, facing the group with a weary sigh.  
  
"Look, people," he called. "I hate to let you all down, but I am not King Arthur! Period. End of story."  
  
"But you are our King!" the masses cried. "You have drawn the Sword from the Stone. All hail, King Arthur!"  
  
"I am not King Arthur!" the man yelled over the din. "Look, I'm just trying to get back home! I don't want to come and rule all of you nuts from some high tower with some batty old wizard! I already have a batty old wizard to work for. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, not your Arthur character!"  
  
"But you must be Arthur!" one of the warriors in front called. "There is no other who claims to be king. Besides, Merlin said you were."  
  
"And Guinevere," added another knight from the left.  
  
The man let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't care what Guinevere said about me. I am not her husband; I have a girlfriend back home, anyway. Now if you will all just leave now like nice little crusaders..."  
  
"King Arthur," the mob cried, apparently for lack of any more logical response. "King Arthur!"  
  
The Arthur-lookalike growled again in borderline deadly exasperation.  
  
"LOOK! I did not pull any frikking sword out any frikking rock, and I am not frikking King of frikking Britain! Got it?"  
  
From the yells of the crowd, the warriors hadn't got it at all.  
  
Then, suddenly, a tall figure arose from a knot of fawning females at the back of the room, pushed a shock of blonde hair out of his eyes, and yelled, "Hey, people! Leave the guy alone! Go look for the Holy Grail or something!"  
  
Several thousand pairs of people turned to look at each other. Then,  
  
"The Holy Grail!" they screamed, clashing their weapons together and doing a neat about-face. "The Holy Grail!"  
  
And as quickly as they had come, the crusaders flowed in a red-and- white river out the door.  
  
Instantly the bar burst into a storm of applause, fins thudding on tabletops to a chorus of whistles and cheers. The man on the bar-counter turned a little red, but did a couple of elegant bows to the crowd before leaping off his perch and vanishing into the masses of people. It was still easy to follow his movements, however, by the fish in the area clapping him heartily on the back and calling, "Good show, excellent show, haven't had anything that good in the Yoshimoto for years!" It seemed that he was making his way as quickly as he could for the door, however, and frankly, Leia couldn't blame him. Then, all of a sudden, Han (resplendent in a new jeweled monocle that he had picked up somewhere) stood up and did something very unexpected.  
  
"Hello, mister," he called, waving cheerfully. "Are you feeling out of place, too?" The stranger's head appeared over the broad shoulder of a trout.  
  
"Yes, rather," he responded sourly. "No one else seems to carry a sword around here, except for those British crusader-type nuts."  
  
"Then come on over." Han beckoned him with on splendidly beringed finger. "Join the club. We're all crazy, too."  
  
There was a brief flash of peach, and suddenly a golden bracelet appeared around Han's wrist. It jangled merrily as he waved again.  
  
The dark stranger looked up at the severed ceiling fans, down at his boots, sideways at the door, then, oddly enough turned on his heel and started pushing through the crowds to their table. SOS-180, being of course a tireless android, politely stood up and offered him a chair when he arrived.  
  
The stranger nodded his thanks and plopped wearily down into it, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. Now they could get a clearer look at him. SOS-180's eyes took on that strange red glint again as he glanced at the man who had taken his seat, and Leia just barely heard him hiss, "This is the one we were supposed to destroy long, long ago...he has returned to his death...slice..." No one else seemed to pay any attention, however, least of all the stranger, and so Leia shrugged, dismissed it as a slight programming error, and turned back to examine the newcomer. He was a middle-sized man dressed in black, with several types of blades hanging at his waist and strong, callused hands that suggested he frequently used them. Leia's stomach did a funny little double take as she looked at him, despite the fact that he was more than a bit dusty from fleeing his would-be subjects across the Tatooine desert. He had curly dark hair that hung down to his shoulders, peppered faintly with gray, and a neatly cropped moustache and beard. Intense gray eyes were currently rolled upward in lingering exasperation. He was quite a hunk, Leia decided, in a very 1450s sort of way.  
  
The music had switched from disco to Latin, and was now enthusiastically blaring "Copacabana," Leia's number one most disliked song in the entire bloody network of parallel universes.  
  
Now would perhaps be a nice time to start talking.  
  
"Hello," she said to the stranger, trying to ignore the full-sized jackrabbit having a seizure in her stomach. "I'm Leia. Or Leah the Local Beatles Freak, only everybody thought I was the princess of some bizarre planet when I first started hallucinating. They called me Princess Leia. Use whatever's easier to say. Anyway, I'm nuts, and you don't exist, but you know, that's okay."  
  
"She's convinced that the galaxy doesn't exist." Luke finished. "Hi, I'm Luke Skywalker; I have no social skills and a lot of embarrassing problems that even God doesn't know so why do you think I'm going to tell you?"  
  
"Please excuse him." Han swiped a couple of daggers off the stranger's waist without anyone noticing. "He's weird. And I'm Han Solo the...er...well, most people call me the Kleptomaniac in a Sweater. Whatever that means."  
  
"How lovely." The stranger nodded and smiled, perhaps relieved to find people in more of a pickle mentally than he was. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, soon-to-be Lord of Gondor, if I ever manage to get home. Pleased to meet you. Did you happen to arrive at this unusual place the same way I did?"  
  
"I don't know," Leia gulped, administering heavy tranquilizers to the critically ill jackrabbit. "Ten years ago I touched a carrot back home in North Dakota and I just sort of got sucked into this place. You?"  
  
Aragorn nodded slowly.  
  
"Yes," he said, "There must indeed be strange powers at work. For I arrived in much the same way as you, only the vile culprit was a turnip." He reached into one of the many pockets in his black hunt-coat and produced a small, very wilted magenta root vegetable. "I was unlucky enough to arrive at the same time as a party of crusaders. They took me for their king." He snorted. "And only based on the word of some batty old fool in a long robe and their highly disreputable-looking queen."  
  
Leia picked up a large rock and put the jackrabbit out of its misery in a last effort to get it to stop kicking. She could see why a woman might want to pretend to be this guy's wife.  
  
And then a strong hand grabbed her by the collar, making her jump out of her skin. (Incidentally, her skin took this as an opportunity for a vacation to Baja, and Leia did not see it again until much later in this unfortunate adventure.) Slowly she looked up, seeing another hand clamped on Han's fur coat, looked up, up, up until she saw the face of her captor.  
  
Upon seeing the corpse of the jackrabbit, a large kangaroo collapsed into a mad nervous fit in her stomach.  
  
Some sort of Greek god must have walked into the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar all of a sudden. Aragorn was completely forgotten. The blonde guy looked down with eyes of stern blue and smiled grimly.  
  
"One from Dakota where beetles sing/ One with a sword claimed by all as a King/ One for whom juice of the lemon is Lord/ One who unwitting steals gems for his hoard." Beatrice looked from one startled face to the other, his voice a mysterious whisper. "Well, well, well, we have ourselves a prophecy." 


	5. More About Beatrice

Chapter V  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe was almost asleep behind his refrigerator. His handy old digital watch said that it was night (of course, his handy old digital watch had also confidently proclaimed the time to be 11:11 A.M. for forty years now) so he figured it must be time to get to bed. The next few hundred digits of pi scrolled peacefully across his resting mind, and along with them visions of money, fame, sausages, and other such long-lost dreams. In fact, he didn't really even hear the loud argument taking place just outside his refrigerator home, didn't hear Darth Vader choke the blundering High Admiral to death, and didn't hear the voice of the Sith Lord as he sat in the dark long after midnight, softly chanting, "One from Dakota where beetles sing, One with a sword claimed by all as a King..." Shnibbidy Bob Joe lived for the sake of pi. Even his cousin Eleanor was fading in his memory. He just didn't give a darn about the affairs of the Galaxy anymore.  
  
Han Solo looked up into the divinely handsome face of the young man he had accidentally deprived of a pocketwatch earlier in that very strange day. Beatrice's eyes were gleaming with a frosty azure flame-to be sure the adjectives didn't quite agree, but it was the only way Han could describe that look-and his blond hair was flopping over his eyes in a sort of mysterious-roguish way. For the first time Han noticed how tall Beatrice was, and how powerful his grip was on the back of Han's new fur coat. It was not the last time he would get the feeling that there was something a little uncanny about Beatrice-well, even less normal than being named Beatrice. The renowned hunk had something more to him than a sharp tongue and a pretty face.  
  
"Hello, Beatrice," Han said, rather timidly. Luke and Aragorn looked at the handsome man and snorted at Han's words. Princess Leia appeared to be occupied with other things.  
  
"Oh dear." Beatrice looked down at him and sighed heavily. "I was afraid the instant I met you that you were the one spoken of in the prophecy. No offense, but you just seemed sort of an...er...idiot, if you know what I mean. Oh well-" He straightened up again-"If the Powers have chosen you, then you are the one it was meant to be. And your companions. The first six of the 9.75 walkers." He stared around impressively at Han, Luke, Leia, Aragorn, and SOS-180.  
  
Abruptly Aragorn moaned and let his head droop down to the tabletop, upsetting Leia's whiskey with a loud clonk.  
  
"No way," he muttered. "No, no way. I get away from one band of prophecy-obsessed nutcases back home on Roughly Central Earth, only to land among a bunch of medieval British prophecy-obsessed nutcases, and then get rescued from that only to join another band of mystico-maniacs. I'll never escape this wandering fate. Alas, alack..."  
  
"Aragorn?" Luke prodded the tall man tactlessly in the shoulder. "Yo, dude, what's up?" "...I'll be wandering the parallel universes until I die at this rate, running after one obnoxious group of questers after another. And perhaps Roughly Central Earth will fall for lack of my leadership, and the Shadow will fall over all the lands. The Shire will be destroyed-" here he knocked his forehead against the table-"and all the little perian, and Minas Tirith will be torn stone from stone-" knock, knock-"and the Elves will all be slaughtered...Elves...Rivendell...Arwen, oh Arwen, I've failed you, forgive me, forgive me..."  
  
Aragorn broke down sobbing for no apparent reason, to his much- baffled audience, at least.  
  
Luke whistled and twirled his finger around in a circle to the side of his head, making a sound curiously like that of a cuckoo clock.  
  
"Well, you're certainly sensitive," Han snapped. "C'mon Skywalker, the guy's had a rough life. God knows the road's enough to leech the wits out of anyone who walks it long enough. He's just out of his head, just like we are, just like..." His voice trailed off, and he glanced nervously up at the tall and shockingly handsome figure of Beatrice towering above him in stern silence.  
  
Princess Leia was tilted back in her chair with her mouth open, staring, completely stunned, at Beatrice. She didn't seem to be aware of any of the conversation going on around her. No help there, Han decided. He settled for shooting Luke a dirty look, then noticed with twinge of gratitude that someone had left a wallet containing $1500 plus several million bucks' worth of free Spiral Galaxy Salon haircuts in his lap.  
  
Luke took the hint, and patted Aragorn awkwardly on the shoulder.  
  
"Er...sorry dude. Wish I could do something about it."  
  
"Oh, you can't." Aragorn looked up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "You're just a pawn in this crazy scheme, too, we're both captive in the hands of the mystic people. Why, if I ever get my hands on Gandalf again, or even Merlin lackwit, I'll..." He smacked one fist limply into his palm, then blinked away another tear. "But that's beside the point. I'm just afraid that Roughly Central Earth has fallen into the evil clutches of Sauron in my absence, and that all my friends are...are...dead!" Sniff, sniff.  
  
"Well, Sir Sword-Bearer," said Beatrice briskly, "if you must borrow trouble, you'd better do it handier home. You've got enough to worry about without worrying about the other dimensions. Roughly Central earth is fine, perfectly fine, and Gandalf is approximately three days from reaching the Shire for Bilbo's birthday party. And yes-" he added, seeing some sort of nonsense word springing to Aragorn's lips (and subsequently running off whacking a large drum and cackling madly)- "Rivendell is fine. Arwen is fine. Honestly, Aragorn, for a King, you're remarkably pathetic."  
  
"Now wait just a minute!" Aragorn stood up with a crack of breaking chair, his powerful hand straying to the hilt of a vicious-looking broadsword. "How am I supposed to know that you aren't a servant of Sauron, attempting to draw me away from my mission on Roughly Central Earth? You, an unnaturally hunky guy from goodness-knows-where, suddenly saying that I'm part of another prophecy, and I need to go save another planet? I don't want to believe you at all! And calling me 'pathetic' sure isn't winning any points, mister!"  
  
"You are pathetic." Beatrice looked down his perfectly proportioned nose at Aragorn with undisguised contempt. "Sometimes you put me very much in mind of a cocker spaniel, with the-"  
  
"So now you've been watching me all my life, and know all my secrets, eh!" Aragorn's voice rose to a yell. Once more the bar fell silent, deciding unanimously that this tall dark man was quite the most interesting form of entertainment the bar had ever seen in its long history. "Well, I tell you now, Beatrice, only a servant of Sauron could claim that kind of knowledge! Stand up and fight to the bitter end, Man With a Woman's Name, and you will see what kind of a man is Aragorn son of Arathorn!"  
  
Aragorn whipped out his broadsword again and leveled it expertly for Beatrice's chest, upsetting Han's margaritas-"Hey!" Han yelped indignantly- and crushing what was left of Luke's lemon juice glass.  
  
"Man With a Woman's Name?" Beatrice's eyes blazed ferociously at the sword-brandishing figure above him. Princess Leia sighed and indiscreetly leaned back so her head was touching his waist. "That's it, Aragorn, you've said enough. No one makes fun of my name and lives!" Beatrice suddenly and dramatically whipped an ancient-looking, gooey candycane out of his shirt and pointed it at Aragorn-Princess Leia sighed again.  
  
"Gorkum jujitsu!" he shrieked in some arcane language unknown to all but the combatants. "Yo fo urgus Napam Calistoga! Effeltarf whiffle Republicanses lugglysnarfs!"  
  
Aragorn flew fifteen feet in the air and landed with a thump on the ceiling.  
  
"You won't get me that easily, fiend!" he shouted, waving his broadsword, his face turning red from all the blood rushing into it. "I won't be stuck up here for long. Grommets and doubloons, ipsum, so there, servant of Sauron!"  
  
Aragorn turned three somersaults in the air as he fell off the ceiling, landing elegantly in a heroic heap of arms and legs at Beatrice's feet. Before the startled candycane-wielder could do anything about it, Aragorn was up again and swinging his sword an uncomfortable distance from his head. He seemed to be berserking, or something else similarly Norse, because he hardly seemed to have human fears at all. Or human common sense.  
  
"I'll get you, my pretty," he howled, hacking away at the dodging Beatrice, "and your little dog, too! God save the Queen, and damn the torpedoes, men, full speed ahead! Bonzai! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! For God and France!"  
  
"You're crazy!" Beatrice managed to shout under the continuing barrage of clangs as Aragorn's sword dealt grievous blows to beer flagons. "Aragorn, stop, I surrender! You're going to kill yourself or me or some innocent bystander!"  
  
"Frankly, my dear," Aragorn roared by way of response, "I don't give a damn!" Little flecks of foam went flying along with the metal shavings. "Down with Communism! To be or not to be, that is the question."  
  
Aragorn struck one more time with his sword and hit, by chance, a large wine cooler, causing the blade to unhappily break in half. Aragorn stopped dead, stared at his mutilated weapon for a moment or two, then slipped off the table in a stream of overturned beer. He flopped limply to the floor, staring up blankly at Beatrice and the others who crowded around him.  
  
"Et tu, Brute?" he gasped finally, and promptly fainted.  
  
"Well, well, well, that was interesting," said Luke finally, prodding the downed warrior with his toe. Aragorn grunted faintly and muttered something about flying monkeys. "I can see we're going to have a very lively-quest, or whatever happy dangerous-type thing you're trying to get us hooked up on."  
  
"It'll be quite a life experience," SOS-180 chirruped, "that is, if my joints don't completely crust over with dried beer first."  
  
"It's not my choice," Beatrice said impatiently, bending forward and trying to lift Aragorn's deadweight (which was made rather difficult by the fact that Princess Leia was hanging determinedly onto his belt.) "If I had a say in the matter, I wouldn't even be here working strange magic with a candycane and leading quests. But two thousand years ago-"  
  
"Two thousand?" yelled Han, Luke, and SOS-180 in the same instant.  
  
"Yes." Beatrice waved an irritated hand at them, and his other hand at Aragorn. Aragorn promptly levitated several feet in the air, and floated over to his chair, landing neatly upright (although his head had a disturbing tendency to loll.) "Yes, two thousand years. I am quite the unlucky chap. But...you know..." He glanced around at the hordes of sushi that were staring curiously at the little group of humans. "We'd better leave the Yoshimoto. It's not safe to talk of such matters here, because His spies might be watching from the crowd."  
  
Aragorn woke up with a start then, smiled pleasantly at Beatrice, and requested a lemon tart with coffee, black, please.  
  
"I think we'd better be going now, Aragorn," Han said kindly but firmly, taking Aragorn by the upper arm and levering him out of his seat. "There are a few things we need to discuss in a more secure location."  
  
"Things..." The cloudy look suddenly lifted from Aragorn's face. "Oh yes, that's right, we were discussing quests, and I remember distinctly wanting to kill the blond guy over there." He jerked his head at Beatrice. "Lucky I was too polite to draw blade on him, eh?" He winked at Han, shot a venomous look at Beatrice, and started for the door on his long, agile legs.  
  
Luke snickered.  
  
Han looked concerned as he started after the clearly senile fellow, picking up someone's credit card accidentally on the way.  
  
Beatrice looked even more concerned, and tried to follow the three other men, once more made difficult by Princess Leia, who was latched onto him much like a whelk on a rock, except that not many normal whelks emit heartsick sighs every five seconds.  
  
There is, in fact, according to the Wellenforf Galactic Encyclopedia, one Vuebegonian species of whelk that does this, oddly enough. At precise intervals of five seconds, every single whelk in the colony emits a heartsick sigh, making for quite an awe-inspiring spectacle. There are various native legends used to explain the bivalves' extraordinary behavior, none of which really carry any scientific credibility and most of which involve a lovely clam-maiden. At any rate, mad scientists from all over the galaxy flock to see (and try to capture) the famous Vuebegonian Sighing Whelks. But that is just wildlife Vuebegon-style, and the Vuebegonian Sighing Whelks do not in fact enter this story until much later.  
  
Now then, back on topic:  
  
Beatrice glared needles down at Princess Leia, who just sighed louder and collapsed against his knees. Luke snickered again as several attractive blonde women rose indignantly from their chairs at the back of the room and started toward Princess Leia in a vaguely threatening manner, waving cleavers and handheld laser pistols.  
  
"Just who do you think you are?" one shrieked. "Beatrice is my man, and you have the audacity to go flopping all over him like that! You get away from him this instant!"  
  
Princess Leia smiled dreamily into the muzzle of the woman's pistol, and turned back to Beatrice. One could hear the thrum of her built-in earphones blasting "All You Need is Love."  
  
Fortunately, Beatrice decided that now might be a good time to beat a retreat, and began stumbling after Han, Luke, and Aragorn, dragging Princess Leia by his ankles.  
  
They never heard about what happened to the cleaver-wielding ladies in the sushi bar. Of course, to fish, cleavers are the ultimate Weapon of Horror, so it was likely that law enforcement was called in to cart them off and deport them to Vuebegon, about the world's worst place for a person with all their faculties intact to live. Considering it seriously, Han gave their sanity...two months.  
  
At any rate, they pushed their way out through the crowded sushi bar, and strode-or hobbled, or bumped-down the street, turning the corner and following Beatrice down a small dark alley. Behind a long row of dumpsters Beatrice stopped, sniffed the air a couple of times, and keeled over backwards, momentarily stunned. Princess Leia smiled idiotically as 150- odd pounds landed on her stomach, then sniffed the air as well. Her eyes rolled unpleasantly up in her head. Luke, Han, and Aragorn exchanged meaningful looks, wondering if perhaps this wasn't the best place for a council meeting.  
  
"You think I could slip away while he's out?" Aragorn muttered, jerking his shaggy dark head at Beatrice. "Maybe we ought to leave him here and try to rebuild our lives, what do you say? I have no desire to go around holding secret councils behind extremely ripe bins of refuse, and I doubt any of you do, either."  
  
"Whatever you say, Aragorn," Han said with a cautious smile. He really didn't want to be on the receiving end of Aragorn's berserk wrath, although he himself was rather curious about this whole prophecy deal. And maybe he could make some money off it. He needed a job desperately.  
  
Luke, however, appeared to have no worries about Aragorn's possible negative reaction. (Or else he just had trouble integrating cause and effect.)  
  
"Yeah, very good," he snorted. "Now, how are we going to move her?" He gestured at Princess Leia, pinned beneath Beatrice's deadweight. "And it's not like she wants to leave the blond guy."  
  
"We could leave her," Aragorn suggested hopefully.  
  
"Dude, she saved my butt," Luke said firmly. "We were all going to die on a falling elevator and she saved my butt. I don't want to leave her here."  
  
"Falling what?" Aragorn raised one eyebrow. "Never mind, I'm leaving, if you want her to come, go and wake her up."  
  
"Okee-dokee, then." Luke shrugged and gasped in a large supply of air, then strode behind the dumpsters. With his foot he nudged Leia in the head. She grunted but did not stir. He nudged with greater force. A couple of strange verses involving a king and a whelk-maiden came jumbling unexpectedly out of her mouth, but she still did not snap out of it.  
  
Luke shrugged, bent down, grabbed her head with both hands, and shook violently.  
  
Princess Leia awoke with a yell, flailing at Luke with her fists and cursing in nearly all the languages that existed, and some that didn't.  
  
Beatrice went flying, landing with a resounding crack on the cement.  
  
And woke up, of course.  
  
"Yeowch!" Beatrice exclaimed, after adding a few new words to even Princess Leia's impressive vocabulary. "Are you trying to kill me and run or something?"  
  
"Well..." began Aragorn, without much tact.  
  
"No, certainly not," said Han, helping him up and filching his wallet with the same motion. "We're only sorry you passed out because of the smell. We can't wait to hear all about this...mission...thing, can we folks?" He exchanged a meaningful look with Aragorn, who made a meaningful gesture with his finger. Han scowled and mouthed, Well you don't have to be so touchy about it, whereupon Aragorn made another meaningful gesture with his swiftly unsheathed dagger.  
  
"I saw that, Aragorn," Beatrice said sternly. "That kind of attitude is not going to get us anywhere!"  
  
"What?" queried Aragorn innocently, carelessly slipping the dagger back into its sheath.  
  
"You gave Han the finger," Beatrice continued. "That is not nice behavior."  
  
"Oh," said Aragorn, leaning against the wall.  
  
"Look, sir King, I want you with us about as much as you want to be with us, but you got to because the Prophecy says so. Six of the 9 ¾ we have here now, including you, and you will not be able to get out of it."  
  
"Oh," said Aragorn.  
  
"DUDE!" Princess Leia yelled suddenly, apparently having recovered her wind. "People, stop fighting! Aragorn, Beatri......" The word trailed off into a long sigh, and Han feared for a minute that they'd lost her again. Fortunately she regained her composure. "Yeah, you two, stop fighting. Let's get this thing done before this stupid chapter gets any longer!"  
  
"I suppose I can't argue with that," Aragorn grumbled, "since I'd really rather we get out from behind a dumpster soon. And if I really have no choice..."  
  
"You don't," said Beatrice firmly. "The Prophecy says."  
  
All of a sudden Beatrice's eyelids dropped closed, and he began to chant in an eerily distant voice. SOS-180 stared at the opening of the alleyway trying to convince himself that the voices were not real. The four other humans instantly felt a strange heaviness in the air, almost tangible forces of Fate and Destiny running up and down their spines and raising the little hairs on their necks (and playing spin-the-bottle, and getting drunk, and holding head-bursting rock concerts on the dumpsters. Only Beatrice had enough power to notice this, however, and he was thoroughly occupied with Freaky Whispering.)  
  
"One from Dakota where beetles can sing, One with a sword claimed by all as a King, One for whom juice of the lemon is lord One who unwitting steals gems for his hoard  
  
One golden-haired siren with voice of a crow One Seeker, one android whose haunted eyes glow One giant Sea Squid, one reckless Elf-maid All led by an Ancient, long shrouded in shade.  
  
The nine and three-fourths, in legends foretold Shall arise to do battle with the Powers of Old And will hasten the end of the dark forces' reign With but one thing to bind them: a lacking in brain."  
  
The strange verse ended with a mysterious whistle of wind through the dumpsters. Aragorn shuddered as Beatrice's icy blue eyes roved around the silent semi-circle and came to rest on him like a silent warning, piercing his heart. Or perhaps he shuddered because of the empty Twinkies wrapper that came flying in with the mysterious gust of wind and plastered itself, frosting-side down, to his face. One never could tell with such things.  
  
"Yes," whispered Beatrice, still boring Aragorn through with his eyes. It was a little hard to hear him over the whine of the electric drill. "Yes, my friends, that is the Prophecy. The first four are obviously you. The android is him." Beatrice nodded at SOS-180, who was shifting nervously from foot to foot humming "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" and valiantly ignoring the voices in his primary control circuit telling him to assassinate Aragorn.  
  
"And the Ancient..." Beatrice drew himself up straighter, and suddenly seemed to draw all the shadows of the dumpsters around him into a cloak of mystery. "The Ancient One spoken of is me. It is I who will guide you on this quest."  
  
"Yes!" whispered Princess Leia, rather indiscreetly.  
  
"Yes," echoed Aragorn. He sat up taller as well, and once more seemed nobler and more kingly, even with a Twinkies wrapper stuck to his cheek. "And Beatrice, though my heart would rather be in Roughly Central Earth where it once was, I am...I am ready to go with you. Only one small detail. Where are we going, and what are we going to do once we get there?"  
  
"We are going-" Beatrice checked his watch. "We are going to ancient Greece. Heroic Age Greece, when the Gods were still (in some cases literally) screwing around with the mortals and meddling in their important business. None of you will know the terrain; I will be your sole guide. And the Cat should be arriving any second now, bearing with him our key to unlocking the Doors of Time. Do not fear, more will be explained. My contacts in ancient Greece are already expecting a large party of people from the Otherworld."  
  
If some maniac with way too much time on his hands had pulled out a permanent marker and scrawled, Huh? all over the four people's faces, the message couldn't have been much plainer.  
  
"I told you," said Beatrice, getting impatient again. "The Cat is coming. The Comm-"  
  
But he was abruptly cut off as a large ball of peachish fur came barreling off the top of the dumpster, landing neatly on the fire escape.  
  
It was, oddly enough, a very fat cat, with long marmalade fur and a bright red bandanna around its neck. There was also a red mark painted on its furry forehead. It glared earnestly down at them out of keen yellow eyes, then opened its fanged mouth wide.  
  
"Mao!" it yowled. "Mao!"  
  
It then leapt up the fire escape and vanished as quickly as it had come.  
  
A large white parsnip came plummeting sadly down through the iron railing at its passing and landed directly between the semicircle of people.  
  
"Behold!" Beatrice said impressively. "One of the Great Root Vegetables!"  
  
Huh?  
  
Han sincerely hoped that this wasn't supposed to make any sense.  
  
"I can see," Beatrice continued, "that you are desperately hoping that this isn't supposed to make any sense."  
  
Han's eyes bugged out with shock. Could Beatrice read minds? Han definitely did not want to have to hang around with someone who constantly knew what he was thinking.  
  
"Well," Beatrice smiled wolfishly. "Since it doesn't make sense yet, you're just going to have to trust me. But be very quiet! It is not always wise to toy with the Keys of Time. We do this only in desperate need. Everyone, gather round in a circle and hold your hands just above the Great Root Vegetable. DON'T TOUCH IT UNTIL I SAY SO-Mr. Solo!"  
  
Han, who had just been considering putting his hand on the vegetable, blanched a little more, becoming a shade of color rather similar to that of the parsnip. Beatrice was definitely a little creepy.  
  
"All right." Four faces in an identical shade of parsnip, plus one confident-looking face, plus one galvanized-with-gold-plating that didn't particularly look anything at all, bent in over the parsnip. At first glance it seemed perfectly ordinary, until one looked closer and realized that there was absolutely no dirt on its pale peel whatsoever. Also, if you looked at it hard in a very dark place (such as the alley) it seemed to have an uncanny shifting glow. (The glow was parsnip-colored.) Five trembling hands and one hydraulic-joint steady one reached out to hover over the vegetable.  
  
"When I say go, everyone." Beatrice bent excitedly over the Key of Time. "Not-Mr. Solo-before. All right. One-um flaucinaucihillipifillicate-Two-shrubberer mulcher grubber-Three-EVERONE, GO!-chikkin nudul ZOOP!!!!  
  
"And don't worry, Mr. Solo," said Beatrice's voice just before the huge billowing cloud of puce smoke enveloped them, "I cannot read minds." 


	6. Odysseus Enters the Picture

Chapter VI  
.1347759007842239785600610325701668403282911029344745443213110.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe put down his pen for the six-hundred and sixty- first time that day and listened intently to the conversation taking place at the Dark Lord's dining table, a few feet away from his refrigerator.  
  
It was highly unusual for him to interrupt a long day's work of pi- calculating, seeing as the Dark Lord spend most of his time puttering around the greenhouse, far away from the kitchen. But there was no denying it now: for the first time in forty years, something interesting was happening in Lord Vader's residence, something that caused him to routinely hold loud arguments with grand admirals, which Shnibbidy Bob enjoyed listening in on. Not that he understood much of what was being said, but it was a bit of a respite from endless numbers, anyhow. A lot of gibberish about enchanted root vegetables, parallel dimensions, and controlling the universe through enhanced horticulture. Also something about a nine and three quarters that worried Vader quite a bit. In other words, nothing particularly important.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe listened until the yelling stopped and the grand admiral's corpse hit the floor. Then, as Vader stomped off, bellowing for the janitor to come and clean up; he needed to tend his turnips and didn't have time to do it himself.  
  
Turnips. Whatever.  
  
Pi was existence.  
  
Scratch, scratch, commented Shnibbidy Bob Joe's pen as it scrawled across the top of the paper.  
  
All of a sudden, the dingy back alley and the dumpsters weren't there.  
  
Nor was anything else, as far as Luke could tell. The world had suddenly and disturbingly dissolved into a whirling tunnel of puce fluff, rather like vomit-colored cotton candy. Pink heart-shaped confetti was falling from the top of the tunnel, and little alligators with golden wings were fluttering all around them strumming miniature harps with their teeth. Ahead there was only darkness, but the area around them was lit brightly with the strange parsnip-colored radiance of the root vegetable, which was hurtling down the tunnel just ahead of him.  
  
Wind whistled in Luke's ears as he plummeted downward, mingled with the annoying twang and snap of the harps as the little alligators broke the golden harp-strings on their formidable fangs. Luke's eyes were beginning to water. Quickly he closed them.  
  
And then they shot open again.  
  
He closed them.  
  
He opened them.  
  
There was still a handsome Whirlpool dishwasher barreling along the tunnel alongside him, emitting quiet sloshing and clinking noises. Not even his watering eyes could explain that.  
  
"Beatrice?" he called uncertainly. He was getting a sudden manic craving for lemon juice; not for the first time he regretted having left his little pocket canteen at home.  
  
"Hello, Luke," the dishwasher replied. "Nice claws."  
  
Luke looked down at his feet as best he could while careening along at eighty miles per hour. He gasped in horror. Where his nice brown cowboy boots should have been there were furry gray paws with long, curved daggers sticking out from the front. Anxiously he felt his arms-furry-his head-furry, with two large round ears. His nose was big, black, and wet. There was a strong odor of eucalyptus that seemed to hang around him.  
  
"Blast it, Beatrice!" he yowled. "I'm a bloody koala!"  
  
"Yes, well, it's better than some things you could have been," the dishwasher said briskly. "Once I got turned into a giant magnet. I exhibited a disturbing tendency to turn towards the north for weeks afterward."  
  
"I'M A BLOODY KOALA, BEATRICE!"  
  
"Well, you don't have to get so upset." The dishwasher spun around in midair, sounding distinctly miffed. "Honestly, you normal mortals can be such wimps when it comes to travelling between times. You're perfectly safe with me."  
  
"YES, I'M A PERFECTLY SAFE KOALA!!"  
  
"Will you shut up?" hollered a bat with Leia's voice. "You're hurting my ears, and besides, I can't hear my CD."  
  
Luke shut up and sputtered for a few minutes.  
  
"So anyway, Beatrice," said an electric blue octopus, which was industriously stealing gold threads off an ornate pillow. "What on earth are we doing here, and why are we all dramatically altered?"  
  
"Hey!" protested the pillow, flopping away from the octopus to protect its threads. The oversized sprocket wrench behind it shifted uncomfortably and muttered something threatening in a strange metallic voice.  
  
"We are in a Tunnel of Irrationality," the dishwasher began patiently, "the only method of travel between times. You see, the only way one can do something as physically irrational as travelling between times is to distract the Powers that hold the universe together, and the best way to distract the Powers is to formulate something so incredibly, wildly, maniacally irrational that they simply don't notice you're travelling between times. Of course, the very balance of nature depends on people staying in their own dimension, in their own time, so only the Ancients truly know all the skills of time travelling. At least, until the Dark Lord and his vegetables. And that is why you are here."  
  
"Oh," said the octopus and the pillow in unison.  
  
"We all live in a yellow submarine," hummed the bat.  
  
"I'm a koala," Luke wailed.  
  
"Don't worry," said the Beatrice-dishwasher. "The trip is almost over, and we'll be in ancient Greece before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"  
  
"Jack Robinson," said Luke.  
  
"You weren't meant to take that literally," Beatrice-Dishwasher snapped. "But anyway, all of you, get ready for a rough landing. The light at the end of the tunnel shineth upon mine eyes, or what would be mine eyes, were I not a dishwasher. Greece opens up before us. Hello, Herculeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssssss.."  
  
They abruptly picked up speed and plummeted the rest of the way down through the tunnel, faster, faster, their stomachs rising into their mouths.  
  
And then, all of a sudden, the puce cotton candy, the hearts, the alligators, all vanished, and the giant, lace-gloved Hand of Fate dropped the dazed and bewildered six onto a dirt floor with a monotone "Have a nice day."  
  
The parsnip landed with a sad wet thud a few feet away from them, its mysterious glow gone.  
  
It took Luke a few seconds to realize that he was no longer hurtling along at a stomach-wrenching speed, and that the ground was suddenly solid and not fluffy. His relief at discovering these things, however, was completely eclipsed by his relief at discovering that he no longer had fur.  
  
He still appeared to have a wet black koala nose, however, although he figured he wasn't the worst off. Beatrice was still emitting faint slosh and clink noises, Aragorn was wearing a pillowcase over his regular clothes, and Princess Leia's ears were still immense and pointy. Han had one arm too many. At least all the people crowding around don't seem to mind, Luke thought, trying to reconcile himself to the remaining vestiges of koalaishness on his person.  
  
Wait a bloody second. There are people crowding around us.  
  
And these people are carrying swords.  
  
And wearing togas.  
  
God (Adonai, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Manitou, Reverend Son Yeong Moon) help him, Beatrice had been serious. They were in Greece, ancient Greece.  
  
Okay, maybe it wasn't Greece. Maybe it was some other dimension, because giant hero-type men definitely hadn't been walking casually around in the normal-dimension Greece. At least, as far as Luke knew, although on Tatooine you didn't hear much about ancient Greece, or anywhere in the other dimensions, for that matter.  
  
But Luke had run out of thinking time. At that moment, Beatrice leapt to his feet with a delighted slosh-clink and extended his hand to the stocky, red-haired man standing just to his left. The man stepped forward with an matching smile and pumped the offered hand vigorously, simultaneously clapping Beatrice on the shoulder.  
  
"Beatrice, old friend!" he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you in a couple of milleniums! Still knocking the ladies dead over in the old Lucas Dimension?"  
  
Princess Leia sighed and began to keel over backwards, then emitted an injured squeal as Han grabbed her large bat-ear to keep her upright. Luke snickered; he had run out almost all the time on his Snicker Clock and if he didn't find some excuse to snicker soon, he would likely explode.  
  
"I'll guess so," the red-haired man continued, eyeing Leia with amusement. "Lucky you, you have to put up with the swooning all through this thing. I assume she's one of the Walkers?"  
  
Beatrice opened his mouth and sloshed a couple of times, but with intense concentration managed to get his next words out.  
  
"Yes, she's a slosh Walker. The One from clink Dakota. She's obsessed with the Beatles slosh clink. And isn't it good to see you, slosh Odysseus! It has been a couple of millennia, but I clink swear that you don't look a year older since I last left you on Vuebegon Seven. What's your line these days?"  
  
"Oh, same as usual." The man-Odysseus-shrugged. "Adventuring. Monster-slaying. Going right now to fight some sort of war over in Troy. You know how it goes with mortals, always killing. Anyway, it shouldn't take too long; Penelope made me promise to be home for our kid's birthday. Just a couple weeks.  
  
"Ah. Very nice. Well, look, Odie, You-Know-Who's gone and made the You-Know-What's after all-" he exchanged a meaningful look with Odysseus, who gasped in horror-"and the time has come for the Walkers to Walk the Walk. We're after the first Root Vegetable to be dropped into this dimension, Odie, and it's supposedly guarded by a one-eyed giant. You don't think you could bypass the war in Troy and lift us straight to the giant's island, do you? I hate to take up your time but."  
  
"Iggle Xanx, my old friend, as we would say on Vuebegon." Odysseus smiled merrily and clapped Beatrice on the shoulder again. "No problem. Heck, they probably won't even notice if I forget to show up for the war. Interdimensional matters are far more important than the quarrels of kings. The fleet is waiting."  
  
Odysseus spun on his heel and addressed the large group of thick, sinewy men behind him.  
  
"Whaddya say, men?" he roared. "Skip the war and tackle the Cyclops instead?"  
  
There was a moment's silence. This was not quite the reaction Odysseus had been looking for.  
  
"Whaddya say?" he repeated, sounding rather crestfallen.  
  
Then, the burly man in the lionskin briefs stepped forward and crossed his tree-limb arms over his tree-trunk chest.  
  
"Which," he demanded, "holds more glory and danger in the undertaking?"  
  
Odysseus thought for a moment.  
  
"Well," he said reluctantly. "I guess the war, in the end."  
  
The burly man uncrossed his arms and nodded slowly.  
  
"So be it," he said. "We will go to the Cyclops's island."  
  
The men exploded into cheers, shaking long pikes and swords, and throwing a couple of wildcats over the heads of the six bewildered otherworlders.  
  
"See!" Odysseus turned on his heel and smiled brilliantly. "Told you they'd be all for it! Go on, Beatrice, and you, the Walkers, my fleet awaits you."  
  
Odysseus shouted something Greek at his men, and they all scuttled off down the trail, behind the row of hills. Beatrice started cheerfully after him, then abruptly noticed that none of his five companions were moving.  
  
"Well, come on, then," he said snippishly. "What are you five waiting for?"  
  
"Well," said Aragorn slowly, with a bit of a growly edge to his voice. "You haven't told us anything about where we're going or anything about that Odysseus tramp, and you're still expecting us to follow wherever you lead like little sheep on strings?"  
  
"Well, yes, actually." Beatrice shrugged. "You see, you don't need to know what you're doing exactly, you're just there to fill in numbers in a prophecy while the Ancients do the work of getting the Root Vegetables away from the hands of the Dark Lord. And we still need to find the Sea Squid and the Siren (I figured Odie might be able to help with that one, he seems to have a knack for attracting monsters.) Oh, also the Reckless Elf- Maid."  
  
A funny thoughtful look crossed Aragorn's face.  
  
"If it weren't impossible, I might know where to find the Elf-maid," he muttered under his breath. "Although I'm sure she's not the only Elf out there who's broken nearly every bone in her body at least twice. Maybe."  
  
"WHAT?" Princess Leia shouted. Her ears had since decreased to normal size, and it seemed she was having to readjust to normal hearing capabilities as well. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER MY BEATLES MUSIC!"  
  
Aragorn turned geranium-red about the ears.  
  
"Nothing," he muttered. "Don't interrupt the music."  
  
"OKAY," said Leia, and cranked up the volume on her headset a few more notches.  
  
"So anyway," said Han, his right hand neatly stealing a handkerchief from his left. "You were talking about the quest, Beatrice?"  
  
"Oh.Just come on, Odie's waiting. All of you. I'll tell you on the boat."  
  
"Well," chirped SOS-180, for the first time since leaving the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar. "This will certainly be an interesting experience."  
  
"Yes," Luke said dryly. "Very interesting."  
  
"Off we go then!" chirped SOS-180.  
  
"Yes," Luke said dryly, "Off we go."  
  
"Kill.the King." hissed SOS-180.  
  
"Yes," Luke said dryly, then realized what he was saying, and promptly shut his overlarge trap.  
  
As the first six of the Nine and Three Fourths stepped proudly (or shuffled, or clanked) down the dirt path that led to the ships and their destiny, a sudden spark of pride wormed its way into every lunatic heart, a sense of pride at the great works they were involved in.  
  
Luke, however, found himself thinking only of lemon juice. 


	7. Revalations on the Flying Walkman

Chapter VII  
.8099283475708493009849752018392810749171820475208384895932022.  
  
Bang! said a door enthusiastically from somewhere in the near vicinity of Lord Vader's kitchen.  
  
"Lord Vader!" The raised voice of a young man echoed across the kitchen. "Lord Vader! Bad news!"  
  
From deep in the bowls of the Dark Lord's Greenhouse there came an ominous rumble.  
  
"Who are you," Lord Vader bellowed, "and why do you disturb my gardening?"  
  
"Well.well." the young man stammered. "First of all, I'm Admiral Sweeney, sir, and second of all, the C. C. somehow found the Walkers before it found our emissaries and dropped the root vegetable with them. They're in Greece already, and it will only be a matter of time before they get past old Polyphemus. If they destroy that root vegetable, we'll have only five left prepared in this world. The Parsnip is already used, sir, and no one knows where all the little accidents are scattered. We're doomed."  
  
"Doomed, are we?" Lord Vader roared. There was the wed thud of a bag of potting soil hitting the floor. He was clearly in a bad mood, even for a Dark Lord of the Sith. "Thanks for telling me that useful bit of information. Get out of here now, you're disturbing my turnips."  
  
"Lord Vader-"  
  
"Go!"  
  
"Dear Master-"  
  
"GO! MY TURNIPS ARE HUNGRY!!!!"  
  
There was another demonic roar, and something heavy came flying out of the greenhouse door, striking Shnibbidy Bob Joe's refrigerator with the earthy crash of shattering terra cotta. Lord Vader must be very angry, to be chucking flowerpots around. He treasured flowerpots. The Admiral emitted a terrified squeal and ducked out of the door, desperate to escape the Dark Lord's wrath.  
  
When he was gone, Lord Vader let out a long sigh. "Now then," he whispered. "Now then, my turnips, my precious, precious turnips."  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe hastily lifted his pen from the paper. A large blue inkblot had formed over the course of the Dark Lord's conversation.  
  
"Welcome to the Flying Walkman!" Odysseus beamed as he opened the tiny door of the tiny captain's cabin, perched high in the boat's stern. "She's a beautiful ship, isn't she?"  
  
There was a moment's silence as everyone tried to figure out how they were all going to cram inside the 2-meter-cubic cabin.  
  
"What's a walkman?" Aragorn asked finally.  
  
Odysseus smiled even wider. Aragorn wondered if he was physically capable of frowning.  
  
"Oh, you'll soon find out, my dear King," he chuckled. "Wait until you go after the vegetable in 2001. I assume you are the King," he added, eyeing Aragorn up and down, "seeing as you are the only one in this party with a sword?"  
  
Aragorn grimaced.  
  
"I am currently heir to the throne of Gondor, back where I belong," he growled. "I have also been mistaken for some British King Arthur tramp, although I am no relation to the man. Two kingdoms is more than I want, thank you very much."  
  
"Oh dear," said Odysseus, the smile on his face wavering not an inch. "I do hope you manage to get the kingdom thing resolved. I assure you, you will not have the same problem in ancient Greece. People know who their kings are here."  
  
"They had better." Aragorn let his hand drift menacingly toward the hilt of his sword, just in case some ancient Greek commoner was watching, and getting ideas.  
  
Odysseus smiled.  
  
"Well, then, folks," he began briskly. "Let's all pile into the cabin and I'll see us off. We've been waiting for a while, and I think the men will be eager to hit the high seas again. Isn't that right, men?" he called over his shoulder.  
  
A chorus of very loud, wet raspberries provided a clearer response then words ever could.  
  
As the great philosopher Seaborgium once said, "A raspberry is worth a thousand words, a fart two thousand, and a slap in the face a number immeasurable." The great philosopher Seaborgium had a handy phrase for just about any situation.  
  
Aragorn, however, being from Roughly Central Earth, had no idea who the great philosopher Seaborgium was, and as this chapter is told from Aragorn's perspective, the previous two sentences never happened. Understood, readers? The sentences don't exist. Wooo. you are getting very sleepy.and I am getting very off topic so forget the hypnotism, I was never very good at it anyway.  
  
At any rate, Odysseus once more had met a less-than-enthusiastic reaction from his crew, and it was making Aragorn rather nervous. The last thing he needed was for a lot of burly men in lionskin briefs to initiate a mutiny on the ship. He hoped Odysseus could keep them under control, because mutinies, generally speaking, involved a great deal of violence, and Aragorn didn't like getting chopped at very much.  
  
Besides, what if the crew won and.chose him to be leader?  
  
The thought was too terrible even to contemplate. Aragorn hastily put his brain on autopilot.  
  
"Well, boys," Odysseus bellowed jovially at his crew. "You're going to be eager to set sail, because I said you are! So hurry up and square the main yard, we're headin' out onto the wine-dark Aegean! Move those feet, hurry now!"  
  
The load of men glanced unenthusiastically at each other, then reluctantly got up and began hauling on ropes. The ship squeaked in protest as its mast was tugged from side to side by the Greek supermen.  
  
Now Odysseus turned back to the six Walkers.  
  
"Well, folks, I guess we'll be heading into the cabin now. From what Beatrice tells me, we're going to have a lot of explaining to do. Ladies first."  
  
He executed a courteous bow to Leia, who didn't seem to notice anything, as she was energetically lip-synching along to "Penny Lane." Han shoved her in the small of the back, and she stumbled through the cabin door with an oath that Aragorn suspected hadn't been written into the lyrics. Of course, the whole apparatus attached to her head puzzled him- how could you listen to music without instruments?-but he knew enough about music to know that you just didn't say that sort of thing.  
  
Han followed Leia through the door, emitting an equally vindictive curse as the puce cuff of his sweater got caught on a protruding nail. SOS- 180 chirped, "Oh, what pleasant accommodations. Kill," and clanked through after him, apparently crashing into Han, who apparently crashed into Leia, who apparently crashed onto the bunk inside, bringing the others down with her.  
  
Beatrice rolled his eyes and followed them into the dark interior, jerking SOS off of Han and Han off of Leia. The two humans stumbled around in the dark for places to sit, while SOS switched on his infrared vision and speedily found a nice corner to stand in. Beatrice plopped into a small desk chair while Leia and Han sat on the edge of the bed. Aragorn didn't see many other places to sit in the room, and nudged Luke, deciding he didn't have much to lose by playing the gentleman.  
  
"Hey, Luke." Luke continued to stare off into space, his hand in his pockets, humming quietly. "Luke. Into the cabin."  
  
"Hmm?" Luke jumped and spun around to face him. "You have lemon juice?-oh." His face fell. "Oh yes. The cabin. That's right."  
  
He strode sheepishly through the door and promptly sat on Beatrice.  
  
Aragorn looked back at the crew hauling on ropes to raise the sails, looked sideways at the perpetually smiling Odysseus, and walked into the cabin, deciding that he would have to play along with the quest for a little while, before he could make a break for it. Everyone here was clearly unbalanced, and possibly dangerous.  
  
Oh, and you're perfectly sane, aren't you, Lord of Gondor, said the little man in his head with a very nasty grin.  
  
Aragorn sat down on the edge of a tiny desk and waited.  
  
Then the door shut with a bang, and the room was plunged into total darkness.  
  
Leia shrieked and nervously cranked up the volume on her headset.  
  
Then there was utter silence, deep, impenetrable, as full of mystic potential as the silence before the world. Except that the Creator Deity, while in the process of creating the universe, likely did not possess a headset that loudly blared the tune to "Eleanor Rigby"  
  
Then, at last, Beatrice's deep, ominous voice shattered the emptiness, chilling the hearts of the Walkers and at the same time setting alight the pride and mystic promise which lurked deep within them, causing all to break out in a fearful sweat and frantically try to remember the order in which you stopped, dropped, and rolled.  
  
"Behold!" he rumbled, "It has come to a head! The boiling point has been reached, the fat is in the fire, and the shit has hit the fan. In short, the world is going down the toilet."  
  
"Oh," said Han from somewhere off in the darkness.  
  
Luke's Snicker Clock ran out again. "And so it is time," Beatrice continued mysteriously, "to gird our loins, hitch up our trousers, and rise to the fight, because the day of reckoning has come."  
  
Aragorn frowned.  
  
"You, my friends-" here he stared piercingly around the gathering, a rather pointless act, as the room was pitch-black-"are to be the champions in this endeavor. It will be your job to travel between times here on earth to recover the Six Great Root Vegetables, which the Dark Lord of the Death Star has hidden until the time is ripe for a terrible assault on the Universe! One we have already, thanks to the Communist Cat. The Parsnip of Doom lies on the Grecian field, withered and useless, one blow to the Dark Lord's power. But while the other five remain, no one is safe, for Lord Vader shall only hold off the assault until he finds the Seed of the Master Turnip and brings about the dread plant's second rise! You are the Universe's only hope!"  
  
Several people coughed and snorted at once. Beatrice emitted an indignant sniff.  
  
Aragorn groaned and dropped his head to his knees. This sounded exactly like what Gandalf had said when he first persuaded him to leave good old Rivendell and go adventuring, and remarkably similar to the words of the batty old wizard of King Arthur's company. He hated quests. And as quests went, this one didn't even sound particularly heroic. Parsnip of Doom? Master Turnip? Honestly. Life was not looking good. He wondered if he should just whack them all over the head and run.  
  
Oh. They were on a ship. In the middle of the ocean.  
  
Right.  
  
Forget that idea.  
  
Meanwhile, someone was shifting uncomfortably in the corner.  
  
"All right, you've told us a lot of gibberish about what we're supposed to be doing," Leia said slowly. "Now would you mind telling us what on earth the Great Root Vegetables, the Seed of the Master Turnip, the Parsnip of Doom, etc. are? We are only mortals after all, not..divinely.handsome.Ancient people." Sigh. WHACK! Leia's voice promptly returned. "and are not versed in the lore or whatever of the ages or whatever.Oh, Great Ringo, I seem to have completely forgotten what I was going to say."  
  
"COME ON, LEIA," Han snapped. "You can't even see him in the dark."  
  
Beatrice sighed, whether from exasperation at their ignorance or exasperation at Leia's swoony mindlessness. It appeared he was trying to politely ignore that latter, however, because the eerie tone of his voice had a rather forced quality when he next spoke.  
  
"Very well. I did not expect you to know all the secrets of the Elder Days at our first meeting. Fortunately I am prepared. Odysseus! Roll the cameras!"  
  
Odysseus's cheerful baritone voice echoed from somewhere to Aragorn's right.  
  
"Hey Jeeves! Roll the cameras!"  
  
There was a loud crack, and Jeeves the Mysterious Glowing Butler appeared in the middle of the room. He twirled his luminous moustache once, bowed elegantly to the company, and pressed a little red button on a strange black apparatus revealed suddenly in his glow. Then, like an immensely coordinated bloom of dinoflagellates, he bowed again and vanished.  
  
Aragorn jumped and peered intently at the black box. Jeeves the Glowing Butler wasn't that much of a spectacle by Roughly Central Earth standards, but the black box was another thing entirely. It was now making a weird thrumming noise, and lights were beginning to flicker inside of it. He had never seen anything remotely similar to it on Roughly Central Earth, and he had seen a lot of strange things. He wondered what it did.  
  
Then, unexpectedly, a large pull-down screen on the facing wall lit up with the image of a big black-armored hand, in the palm of which rested a glowing turnip.  
  
Then, incredibly, the picture began to move. Tiny words scrawled across the screen, in very untidy script: The History of the Universe, part 3.14.Etcetera.  
  
And now, a powerful voice shook the tiny captain's cabin from roof to deck, apparently coming from the same black box. The voice was female, with a heavy English accent, very melodious yet somehow piercing. Earth- folk would immediately have identified the voice as Cate Blanchette, but as none of the company had been on Earth for a long time (if at all) no one made the distinction.  
  
Aragorn was about to open his mouth and ask about the black box, but Luke elbowed him in the thigh and hissed, "Shut up, it's speaking."  
  
"In the glorious days of Spreehinkle," the voice whispered mysteriously, "when all of the universe was fair and bright, the young Lord Vader bethought of himself to take a wife. His cosmic eyes scanned the width of the newborn universe and lighted upon Kitty Bennet, a beautiful Ancient maiden from the tiny backwater world of Earth."  
  
Leia sniffed indignantly here, and was quickly shushed by Han.  
  
"Alas, she had no heart to see the truth of Lord Vader's love, and after rejecting his proposal fled to what would later become England. There she solemnly devoted her life to fainting, and reportedly raised five daughters with a mortal man several millennia later." "At this the benevolent spirit of Lord Vader was broken. Wroth at the lady's refusal, he retreated to the dark Caves of Caveus and began there his transformation from kindly king to monster. In the pitch black of the Caves he began to tamper with ancient spells, and weave nets of evil about himself and the caves. Little is known of what passed between his disappearance and his second rise, but whatever it was proved to the Universe terrible. For he emerged from the darkness as the Dark Lord, a terrible black-armored specter with only a single aim left in his twisted heart: Universal Domination."  
  
"He began a series of assaults on all the bastions of happiness in the universe, looking to satisfy his own greed. At first the men of the worlds withstood him easily, as he was yet new-formed and not as powerful. But soon, might began to take its toll, and world after world began to fall to his armies of monstrous bats and bloodsucking umpires. The darkest days were approaching. And just when it seemed that matters could grow no worse, the unthinkable happened. Lord Vader, the deceiver, created six Great Root Vegetables, which could open the paths between planes and dimensions to loose all manner of unknown evil on the universe. He gave these in disguise to the Lords of the Galaxy: Three to Whelk-kind, and Three to Men. They took them unquestioningly, thinking them some glorious weapon which could restore the forces of good to the Universe."  
  
"But they were all of them deceived. For another Vegetable was made."  
  
"Deep in the dark greenhouses of Nûdûl-Zoop, the Lord Vader fastidiously tended a great turnip plant. Carefully it was cultivated, pruned and fertilized, until it grew to a monstrous size. And then, when it was ready, Lord Vader sprayed upon it the Fertilizer of Doom, which enabled it to open the pathways of time and completely ruin the universal order. This Vegetable also controlled the Six Lesser Vegetables, and so twisted the rulers of Man and Whelk to its will. This was the Master Turnip, feared above all other evil forces in the universe."  
  
"Thus all despaired, for it seemed the universe was at its end, come under the dread dominion of the Dark Lord. But just as all hope was fading, and all lights going out, the armies of Whelks and Men joined forces for one last, desperate fight. They met on the Plain of Pudding, on Vuebegon Seven, and there battled with Lord Vader ferociously for the fate of the universe. For once, it seemed that victory might be near, as the terrible bloodsucking umpires fell in droves to the flashing cookware of Men and the crushing bivalves of Whelks. But then the Dark Lord emerged slowly from his dark pickup truck, brandishing the Master Turnip on high, and began to recite the dread spell that would tear all the dimensions of the universe in two, ending all the worlds."  
  
"Then it was that Wellenforf the Wriggly, Lord of Vuebegon, took up his father's frying pan and attacked the Dark Lord, striking from the black- armored fist the Master Turnip. Then, with composure of which second-rate lounge musicians still sing, he decided he was hungry, picked up the Master Turnip, and ate it."  
  
"Though he suffered severe indigestion for weeks afterward, the Universe was saved. The Dark Lord was driven back to the Caves of Caveus along with his umpire minions, helpless without the Master Turnip. The other Great Root Vegetables were promptly found and destroyed, and so ended the glorious Age of Spreehinkle, with the good victorious once again."  
  
"But the signs have been read by telephone psychics everywhere, and it is inevitable that the Dark Lord shall rise again, greater and more terrible than ever before. And he shall renew the Fertilizer of Doom, and once more create the Six, and then go on quest for the Seed of the Master Turnip, lost somewhere in the nether reaches of the Universe. And then the only force to stand against him shall be the Nine point Seven Five Walkers, the chosen maniacs, who must find the Vegetables before he does, and destroy them."  
  
"And that is this week's episode of The History of the Universe. Tune in next week for "How the Whelks first came to power," and a special report on the movement's of Vuebegon's current King-errant, Wellenforf the Grooge, as he putters about doing random deeds on Earth."  
  
The black box emitted some tinkly music as the voice finished, and an icon comprising the letters PBS appeared on the screen. A pleasant male voice said, "The History of the Universe is sponsored in part by viewers like you," and then the black box shut itself off with another loud whir.  
  
Inside the tiny cabin, there was a dead silence, followed by a live silence, followed by a silence in a coma.  
  
Aragorn was still gaping at the black box, wondering how it possibly could have made all those pictures on the screen move. He had heard the commentary too, of course, but he had heard that sort of thing before on Roughly Central Earth, and he had had a general idea of what the voice was going to say before it even started speaking. But the moving pictures coming out of a box.that was something else entirely."  
  
"I think," said Beatrice from somewhere to his left. "Our friend the King has just had his first look at a movie projector."  
  
Odysseus chuckled from somewhere to his right. "So I would say, Beatrice. He looks rather like a giant codfish, wouldn't you say, with his mouth open like that?"  
  
Aragorn scowled and quickly shut his mouth, and was about to ask how the projector worked before he realized that it was pitch-dark in the cabin, and that the Ancients could not possibly have seen his mouth open.  
  
This, too, he decided not to ask about. It was safer that way.  
  
More silence. Then,  
  
"So we have to find these dimension-messing Root Vegetables and destroy them before the Dark Lord can use them?" Luke said uncertainly.  
  
"Right you are," Odysseus confirmed. "Find them and kill the things guarding them, then chop them up and fry them. That's the only way to destroy them. Then, of course, you'll have to find the Seed of the Master Turnip and destroy it before the Dark Lord can grow a second ultimate vegetable, then find his hidden stash of the Fertilizer of Doom and destroy it. The latter will be perhaps your most important and most difficult task, as no one knows where the Fertilizer of Doom is kept. But once the Fertilizer is destroyed, we will have no more need to fear the Dark Lord. His powers will be broken."  
  
"Great Ringo," Leia whispered, sounding very faint. "Great Paul, Great John, Great George, lend me strength."  
  
"So we have to do all three of these things before we can slope off into the sunset again?" Han grumbled. "Sounds a bloody lot of work and long hours."  
  
"That," said Beatrice sternly, "is what being a legend is all about. Yes, of course you have to do all three things. You are the Nine and Three Quarters!"  
  
Suddenly the door was flung open, and the bright Aegean sunlight poured into the room, blinding everyone. Beatrice and Odysseus stood heroically in the doorway silhouetted against the light amidst a swarm of green and magenta blotches.  
  
"The Company has set sail!" they cried in unison. A very tinny toy trumpet fanfare sounded behind them.  
  
Aragorn groaned and buried his face in his hands. This was going to be a very, very long book.  
TO ALL MY REVIEWERS: I LOVE you people!!!! Thank you so much for taking the time to comment! A huge hug and an oatmeal cookie to everyone!  
  
I apologize for all the long delays between chapters as well. I try to get as much done as I can, but seventh grade has brought way more reports and four hours of homework a night, so I don't have as much time. Luckily it's spring break now, and summer's on its way. Phew.  
  
One last note: this story has taken a bit of a swing towards the Lord of the Rings side as well as the Star Wars (stories run away with me frequently) so I'm thinking of relocating it in the crossovers section. I'll see how things go.  
  
One more hug to everybody! May the blessings of Shnibbidy be with you all! 


	8. Sirens and Seasickness

Chapter VIII  
.089737485208347022834010208119347038424844848384758208472011383.  
  
"My Lord! We think we know where the Seed of the Master Turnip is hidden!"  
  
"Do you indeed, Admiral. Only two hours ago you were saying that we were doomed."  
  
"Well, that was before we heard the news, my Lord. Miners on Vuebegon have broken into a certain cave and found a certain thing that bears a certain resemblance to-"  
  
"Excellent, Admiral Whirrey! That's the first good news anyone's brought me in a week! Promoted, Grand Admiral, I think, go tell old Grand Admiral Wulfgang he can start doing kitchen duty."  
  
"Th-thank you, my Lord!"  
  
"And tell the captains to begin arming their Umpires. I shall send my mighty monster troops out to Vuebegon after this priceless seed."  
  
"Of-of course, my Lord!"  
  
"And while you're at it, ask for some oatmeal cookies. I'm hungry."  
  
"Right away, my Lord."  
  
A scuffle of footsteps announced the new Grand Admiral's departure.  
  
Another scuffle of footsteps announced the arrival of a second Admiral.  
  
"My Lord!" the new arrival cried breathlessly. "We've lost track of the squid and the Siren! They're loose on the Aegean, and they could run into the Walkers at any moment!"  
  
Lord Vader growled, and a body hit the floor.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe listened for another moment, but now the only sound was that of Darth Vader giving his turnips a short pep talk.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob shrugged, wiped his nose, and went back to work.  
  
The Aegean lapped bluishly against the Flying Walkman's neatly curved hull, white-laced waves glittering in the sun as Luke leaned over the railing again and was tremendously sick.  
  
As he had grown up on a desert world, he had been given no chance to discover his susceptibility to seasickness. As it turned out, he got very frequently and very violently seasick, and was now camped out on the edge of the boat, holding up his sweatshirt to keep off the sun and reading dog- eared paperbacks while he waited for the next bout of illness to come on.  
  
To his gratification, Leia and Aragorn didn't seem to be faring much better. Leia was currently lying flat out on the deck, clutching her stomach and singing loudly to keep her mind off things. Luke almost asked to borrow her headphones so he could listen as well, but then remembered that they were somehow attached to her head, so that idea was out. Aragorn, looking very gray under his beard stubble, was lurching around hitting random things with his sword, which seemed to soothe his nerves. The men in lionskin briefs were starting to pause in their work and glance over at him admiringly. It appeared that their measure of a real man was his precision with a sword, and Aragorn's surgical deck-rail splitting was certainly evidence of skill, if not of particular intelligence. Finally one of them grunted a request to see Aragorn's sword, and Luke knew that the king was now among friends.  
  
No one was paying much attention to Luke, except for Odysseus, who brought him the paperbacks and a glass of water after informing him that lemons didn't grow well in Greece. Luke was downcast and in severe lemon juice withdrawal, which could perhaps have influenced his violent reaction to sea travel.  
  
Odysseus passed by Luke's Misery Place again, his golden sandals flapping against the deck with every heavy footstep. Bored, Luke set down the paperback and tapped Odysseus on the ankle.  
  
"Odysseus," he said, "I'm really bored."  
  
The feet stopped moving.  
  
"I'm sorry about that," Odysseus responded. "I can bring you some more books if you want. The lads only like reading dirty romances and books on sword care, though, so we don't have much selection."  
  
"Can I bother you with questions instead?" Luke looked up hopefully from under his coat. Odysseus's freckled, sunburned face smiled down at him. "I finished all the books."  
  
Luke glanced sideways at the small stack of paperbacks as though it were a basket of vipers. He wasn't much one for romances, or for weapon maintenance either.  
  
"Pity." Odysseus bend and picked up several, scanning the covers. "These were our best, too. The Burning Flame of Passion. Passion's Burning Flame. The Flame of Passion Burning. Keep Your Weapon Keen and Clean, and D. Capitate's Ultimate Guide to Sword Care."  
  
Luke snorted, then leaned over the side of the boat for another upchuck.  
  
"Tell me, Odysseus," he said as he sat up again, wiping his mouth. "Are all Heroic Age Greeks like your crew? I mean, 300-pound wrestlers."  
  
"Naw." Beatrice waved a derisive hand. "The Greeks are right now one of the most advanced peoples on Earth. Philosophers. Writers. Scientists. Only the heroes act like my lads. Although," he added as an afterthought, "the lads actually do sing occasionally. When you give them enough wine."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Well," Odysseus said. "I'll be back around, Luke. I have to go and stop Aragorn from slicing up my ship. I certainly respect other people's methods of letting out stress, but something needs to be done if the Flying Walkman is in jeopardy. Maybe I can bring him the books you're done with, eh? Ta ta for now."  
  
Odysseus strode off. Luke watched him for a minute as he bore down on Aragorn, then turned back with a sigh and launched into E. Viscerate's Modern Tactics for the Modern Warrior.  
  
********  
  
Six hours and six boring books later, the light was beginning to fall softly amber across the deck of the Flying Walkman. The canvas sails gleamed, and the water seemed to be painted with liquid gold and scarlet velvet. The sky was beautifully pink in the west, a single crystalline star glimmered on the horizon, and Luke was still very seasick.  
  
Now the Walkman was sailing through a narrow channel, walled in on either side by sheer cliffs, atop which the firm green grass waved tantalizingly at Luke and the other seasick members of the group. He wanted beyond anything to climb the mast and leap onto solid ground again, but the fact that he could not climb, nor jump more than five feet, rendered that a hopeless dream. He had liked it better when they were far away from land. It was much easier to forget how sick he was when he couldn't see what he had left behind.  
  
Leia was still sprawled on the deck, singing along to her perpetual Beatles CD, her Beatles T-shirt now tied into a sort of halter top and her bellbottom jeans rolled up to her knees. It was extremely hot, even in the evening. Aragorn was flopped limply behind a stack of barrels, still looking greenish and dully immersed in The Passion, the Flame, and the Burning. Neither of them could possibly have been as miserable as Luke, however: lemon juice-deprived for a whole day, and desperately bored of reading books with authors like Wo-Man Naizer and D. Stroy.  
  
Odysseus was still puttering around the deck making sure his "lads" were working, and trying to console the seasick people. SOS-180 had come out on deck around midday, and was now staring out over the prow of the ship, humming to himself and shifting from foot to gold-plated foot. Luke followed the android's gaze along the sheer cliffs because he had nothing better to do, taking in all the tiny crevices and sea-caves, and the jutting ledges. The cliffs rose on before them and then turned as the channel opened onto the ocean, two rocky headlands topped with wild grass, sheep, and olive trees.  
  
Leia's headset started playing, "Foothills of the Headlands," making everyone, including Leia, moan for the security of dry land.  
  
Then, Luke's dramatic moan was suddenly cut off by a frighteningly cheerful shout from SOS-180.  
  
"I do declare!" he exclaimed. "Someone's singing!"  
  
Aragorn raised his head from the book enough to glare weakly at SOS.  
  
"No, you think?" he snapped. "Leia's only been singing all day!"  
  
"Kill the King for his insult, we will," hissed SOS-180. "We were supposed to kill him a long time ago."  
  
Aragorn looked decidedly affronted, but a second later SOS's optic sensors returned to their normal color, and his voice was once more abnormally cheerful.  
  
"No, I didn't mean Mistress Leia," he chirruped. "Although her singing is certainly beautiful. This singing's coming from somewhere ahead of the ship. Of course, I have highly enhanced audial sensors, so I might be the only one able to hear it-"  
  
"You're hearing the echo of Leia's singing," Aragorn said decisively. "Now don't bother me, I'm sulking."  
  
He turned back to the book.  
  
All of a sudden, a random wisp of sound reached Luke's ears, although he wouldn't have described it as singing.  
  
"Hang on a moment," he said. "I hear something.wouldn't call it singing.shut up and listen anyhow."  
  
Everyone on deck shut up and listened. Odysseus blanched under his blanket of freckles.  
  
"No!" he whispered. "It can't be the Sirens? Oh please, don't let it be."  
  
But one of the lads had already heard the word "Siren" and wasn't about to let go of the idea.  
  
"Sirens?" he roared. "Are there Sirens in our path, Odysseus?"  
  
"I never said that." For once the smile had vanished from Odysseus's face. "And that's 'Captain' to you, mister!"  
  
The lads didn't seem to hear this, however. They were already excited by the idea of Siren, reacting with a mix of abject terror and delight. Within seconds the entire ship was clamoring with the word "Siren" being tossed around like a volleyball from man to man. Seagulls took flight with angry squawks all around them, and naturally it was now completely impossible to hear the "singing."  
  
"Honestly," Luke shouted. "It wasn't singing, it can't have been Sirens-"  
  
"All right!" bellowed Han's voice from over the tumult. "What's going on here?"  
  
He stood in the doorway of the cabin, arms akimbo and pockets bulging with valuable golden things. The puce angora of his sweater gleamed hideously in the evening sunlight.  
  
"There are Sirens in our path!" roared one of the lads. "The beautiful woman-birds whose songs enchant mortal men into throwing themselves into the sea. We are actually going to encounter them!"  
  
"I see," said Han uncertainly. "And you are eager to encounter them.why? If they induce you to throw yourself overboard?"  
  
"They are beautiful women," the lad roared back.  
  
"Oh," said Han, accepting the logic of this response.  
  
Luke raised his voice again.  
  
"I'm telling you, it wasn't singing!" he yelled. "It was the most awful screeching noise I ever heard! Listen!"  
  
The promise of Siren song immediately hushed the crew, and once more relative quiet reigned on the Walkman's deck. There was no mistaking it now, Luke thought. Someone far up the channel was screeching hideously-two somethings, in fact, or maybe three. If he listened carefully, he could almost hear words in the cacophony. But as he listened carefully, his stomach began to revolt again, and he had to pause while he was sick over the side of the boat. The screeching had that sort of effect on him, and, judging by the revolted looks on the faces of everyone else, that sort of effect on everyone. As the wailing grew louder and louder, the feeling intensified. Luke began to feel as though someone was removing his brain piece by piece with wooden chopsticks, and nibbling energetically on the bottom of his stomach. His head was about to explode.  
  
"These cannot be the Sirens," one of the lads cried, stating the obvious. "They do not sing like heavenly beings! They do not even sing!"  
  
Grumbles and growls of agreement spread across the ship. None of the lads were particularly happy at the absence of enchanting half-women.  
  
"Then what could it be?" Odysseus's frown had deepened, looking extremely unnatural on him. "If not Sirens, what, and where-"  
  
"Look!" SOS-180 chirped, pointing one metal-plated finger towards a shadow on the cliff. "There's something moving. Three somethings moving! Now isn't this an experience!"  
  
Luke staggered upright and stared in the direction SOS was pointing. If he looked very carefully, he could almost see three shapes moving across a ledge very far down the channel. The dying sun was shining directly in his eyes, though; it was difficult to tell.  
  
Han, however, confirmed his suspicion.  
  
"SOS is right," he said, shading his eyes. "There are three somethings moving on the cliff-can't tell what they are though. And there were three Sirens, too.this isn't making since."  
  
"I think," Leia choked, also hauling herself to her feet, "they're dancing. Look at the choreography."  
  
Everyone looked. The shapes did seem to be moving in unison. What in the great expanse of the universe they were, was anyone's guess. They did seem to fit the profile of the three Sirens, except that they couldn't sing. Perhaps there were some Sirens not so vocally gifted?  
  
Odysseus made a quick decision.  
  
"Men of the Flying Walkman!" he cried. "You fear nothing on this earth, do you not?"  
  
There was another long silence.  
  
Somewhat disappointed, but nonetheless undaunted, Odysseus continued.  
  
"And as befits such noble heroes, we will sail boldly forth to meet these strange creatures, whatever they may be. Fate will decide whether good comes of it, or ill, but we will nonetheless sally forward. To the oars!"  
  
With a lot of grumbling, the Lionskin Lads, as Luke was privately beginning to call them, flung open a few trapdoors on deck and clambered down into the hold. Within a few minutes, there was an immense groan of wood, and the twin banks of oars shuddered into motion on either side of the ship. As the oar-blades dipped into the water the ship shot forward a few feet, making Luke, Leia, and Aragorn all retch and deposit what was left of their digestive systems into the water. The ship moved considerably faster with thirty-odd men at the oars, however, and when Luke looked up again he realized that they were already almost level with the ledge and the moving things.  
  
There, on the ledge in front of him, stood three extraordinary figures. From the waist up, they were human women, rather gorgeous human women with long hair, heavy makeup, and nose studs. But below the waist, below the hem of their little halter tops, they were completely and undeniably avian. Their feathers were a bright, metallic blue. They also possessed large wings, which dragged on the ground as they danced around in time to their screeching.  
  
Yep. They were Sirens all right, although their "singing" was the most awful, ear-piercing sound he had ever heard. For a moment he was tempted to leap overboard just to put an end to the misery, but then decided that he would only encourage them by behaving as men were supposed to. He paused for a moment, trying to decide what to yell at them, as Odysseus hollered for the lads to stop. Instantly the ship ground to a halt, and the lads came swarming up to get a look at the Sirens. There were several catcalls and whistles of admiration, which were quite difficult to hear over the half-birds' infernal racket. Luke didn't even bother to take a closer look at them, his head hurt so bad.  
  
And then, he was unexpectedly saved by the arrival of another small trireme, which came rowing up out of nowhere and stopped on their starboard side. The door of the trireme's cabin burst open, and a tall man leapt out, waving his arms wildly and yelling, "Be quiet! Now! Please! That was terrible, absolutely terrible, you are not the American Idols," in a heavy British accent.  
  
A second voice called, "Yo, Cowell, dog, chill out man, they're stopping."  
  
Then the trireme vanished, as irrationally as it had arrived.  
  
The three Sirens burst simultaneously into dramatic tears, which were almost as annoying as their singing voices.  
  
Luke, while reluctant to hurt the half-women even further, was thinking up a polite way to say "shut up" when Aragorn did the work for him. "Look, you three!" Aragorn yelled, sprinting to the side of the boat and shaking his fist. "I'm big, strong, seasick, and mad, and I don't want to put up with any more of this awful noise, got it? My head hurts enough already."  
  
The three stopped crying for a moment and looked up at him inquisitively. Two-the one with dyed alienish white hair and a nose ring, and the one with brown hair and no nose ring-promptly tucked their heads under their wings and began crying again, more quietly. The Siren in the middle, however, remained looking straight at Aragorn, mouth dropping open millimeter by millimeter, eyes ringed black with eyeshadow growing starrier by the moment. She was watching Aragorn with the same rapt expression the Lionskin Lads wore as they watched her, and that made Luke feel rather uncomfortable. To be sure, the Siren was attractive: despite the makeup she had long, dyed-blonde hair, considerable chest, and perfectly white teeth. But she was not human, and that was obvious.  
  
After a few minutes of rapt staring on the part of both groups, Leia snickered and nudged Aragorn in the ribs.  
  
"Hey, sword-boy," she muttered. "You got an admirer."  
  
Aragorn's face went from green to red in a few milliseconds, not a pleasant transformation.  
  
"Oh, just what I've always wanted," he snapped back, "a bird that's madly in love with me. For Elbereth's sake, I've got a fiancée already, and even if I hadn't what would I do with a three-quarter human?"  
  
"Three-quarter human?" Beatrice rushed up behind them, sounding breathless. "By god, she is! A three-quarter human!"  
  
Luke raised one eyebrow, wondering what the big deal was. From the blank looks on everyone else's faces, nobody else had a clue, either.  
  
"Don't you see!" Beatrice exclaimed. "The Nine and Three Quarters! She's three-quarters human! Remember the Prophecy? One golden-haired siren with voice of a crow!"  
  
"LAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!" sang the golden-haired siren, causing everyone to screech and cover their ears until the note died away.  
  
"So you see," Beatrice continued. "It must be her! She's a Walker! The Three Quarters!"  
  
Aragorn looked at him as though he had just received an execution warrant. The color was slowly draining out of his face, leaving it a ghastly parsnip hue over which the beard stubble looked positively hideous.  
  
"You-you mean," he croaked, "she'll be going with us?"  
  
"Certainly looks like it," Beatrice said briskly. "She's mentioned in the Prophecy."  
  
"You mean I'm going to have to listen to that singing every single bloody day?"  
  
"Sacrifices must be made for the goodwill of the Universe."  
  
"And she's got a crush on me?"  
  
Beatrice smiled nastily and nodded.  
  
"Now," he chuckled, "you'll know how it feels."  
  
Princess Leia looked decidedly put-out.  
  
"Well," Odysseus said reluctantly, "I guess we'd better learn her name. If she'll be sailing with us, that is. Aragorn, I suppose you'd better ask her, you'd probably have the best luck getting answers."  
  
Aragorn moaned quietly, rolled his eyes, and leaned slowly over the side of the Walkman.  
  
"Hello, ma'am," he said, with a kind of forced smile that gave Luke the impression he was about to go for the neck. "Very.er, pleased to meet you. What.er.might your name be...?"  
  
The Siren stared adoringly up at him for a few more seconds, then blinked her perfectly curled black lashes and answered, "Britney, mister. And the other two girls are Christina and Jennifer. I'm very pleased to meet you too."  
  
Behind Aragorn's back, Han mimed barfing. Leia, turning green again, clapped her hand to her mouth and whacked him hard across the head. A noiseless scuffle ensued.  
  
"Well, er, Britney." Aragorn continued through gritted teeth. "How would come on board for a minute? It.er, seems we might have some business with you but you'll.er, need to talk to the boss, of course."  
  
Britney's face lit up like a halogen light, giving her blush-heavy skin a glazed look remarkably like that of a cooked Peking duck.  
  
"Oh I'd just love to come and join you, mister." Britney gave Aragorn the old cocker-spaniel eyes. "Can I really?"  
  
Aragorn took a deep breath as though to hold in the "no" that was begging to be released, and hissed, "Yes. You may."  
  
"Oh, thank you, mister!"  
  
Unexpectedly Britney leapt and launched herself into the air, landing awkwardly on the railing next to Aragorn.  
  
"So," she said, scooting sideways until her face was inches from Aragorn's. Aragorn took an automatic step back. "Why do you need me here?"  
  
Odysseus knocked over two of the lads who looked as though they were about to say something.  
  
"I-I couldn't tell you," Aragorn stammered. "You'll-you'll have to ask him." He pointed a quivering finger at Beatrice.  
  
"Oh." Britney looked very disappointed. "I guess I'll ask him then. But- " her flirtatious smile returned-"I'll be coming back around to see you, I suppose." She winked, flipped her wing at him, and hopped off the railing. Aragorn watched her waddle toward Beatrice on her avian legs, sweat trickling down his forehead.  
  
Luke's Snicker Clock ran out. Aragorn glared at him.  
  
"Laugh all you want, pal," he hissed. "You haven't ever had a bird-woman mutant try to hit on you."  
  
Luke snickered again.  
  
Beatrice was now talking animatedly to Britney, who kept glancing back at Aragorn. Suddenly Britney nodded, and the two turned and headed for the cabin, presumably for a second showing of The History of the Universe and a brief explanation of the quest. Beatrice seemed to have no doubts as to Britney's identity as a Walker.  
  
Then, just before she stepped into the cabin, Britney turned around and blew Aragorn a kiss.  
  
Beatrice turned around, grinning nastily, and stuck his tongue out at Aragorn, pointing and pretending to keel over laughing.  
  
Aragorn stared out into space, mouthing in wordless horror. 


	9. The Idiomox of Gibralter

Chapter IX  
For once in the great, unfathomable expanse of all the time zones in the universe, a chapter did not begin with the dull exploits of Shnibbidy Bob Joe.  
  
This in itself was worth celebrating. But Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, had even more things to be grateful for. The Seed of the Master Turnip was almost, almost within his iron-fingered grasp, and with the Seed the Universe would be his. And this time there would be no Wellenforf the Wriggly to do the unthinkable and idiotic, and eat the superweapon. The only things that stood in his way were the maniacs of the Nine and Three Quarters, and despite the loss of the squid and the Elf on the tracker Vader was confident he was a match for anything that came his way.  
  
Besides, the army was setting out for the Vuebegon, to claim the Seed.  
  
Lord Vader dusted off his hands and stepped up onto the big floating dais, clearing his throat impressively. He was ready. He had had a refreshing yell at a few Grand Admirals, strangled a few lower-class sergeants, and now felt as though he could take on anything. As he raised his arms high over his head, letting his black cloak billow out behind him, the umpires below began cheering furiously, waving their spears and shouting his name.  
  
The Dark Lord looked upon his creation, and saw it was good.  
  
Rank upon rank of umpires stretched from one end of the immense Central-Death Star Conference Room to the other, an immense and menacing sea of black uniforms and wire masks. Ten thousand spears glittered hungrily in the artificial lighting, waving dangerously to and fro as the mass of monsters cheered and leapt about to show their master honor. Underneath the catcher's masks, white fangs glittered in still paler faces, blood-thirsting, more dangerous than swords. It was a mighty army.  
  
Lord Vader smiled grimly and braced himself.  
  
"My minions!" he roared. The troops below roared with him. "What are you called?"  
  
"UMPIRES!" The dread word came rasping out of ten thousand carnivorous throats. Vader was pleased.  
  
"Who created you?"  
  
"DARTH VADER, LORD OF DARKNESS!"  
  
"For what purpose were you made!"  
  
This time the yell was so powerful it shook the entire floating battle station.  
  
"WE WILL FIND THE SEED OF THE MASTER TURNIP!"  
  
Lord Vader nodded, a great pride welling up in his chest as he looked over his children. They were a force none could defeat. Pumping his fist in the air, he stepped to the edge of the dais and roared even louder, spurring the ranks of creatures below into wilder cheering.  
  
"You are the Umpires!" he bellowed. "You are big! You are strong! You are bloodthirsty! You can turn into great black bats at will-"  
  
There was a sudden crack of thunder, and ten thousand large black sticks of wood appeared on the floor, turning back into umpires seconds later with an equally loud bang.  
  
"-and most importantly-" Vader waved his arms, trying to rouse the minions into mad fits of heroism-"No one argues with you! NO ONE ARGUES WITH THE UMPIRE!"  
  
The troops below screamed and shook their spears.  
  
"YOU DO NOT KNOW PAIN! YOU DO NOT KNOW FEAR! YOU WILL RAISE THE MASTER TURNIP!"  
  
"RAISE THE MASTER TURNIP!" howled the umpires below. There was a moment of chaotic, bloodthirsty yelling, then suddenly the mass formed into ranks again. Raising their right hand to Vader in the traditional Imperial salute, every single umpire pounded his spear against the floor three times, causing several tons of electric paneling to tear off the ceiling and plummet into the mass of darkness below. And then, the loudest roar that the Death Star had ever witnessed shook the metal sphere from core to hull, the tumultuous dawn of a new dark age:  
  
"PLAY BALL!!!!!!!!!!"  
  
There was an ear-bursting shriek of silver whistles, and the ranks of umpires charged from the room, hooting and brandishing their spears. They were more than ready for the fight.  
  
Lord Vader smiled, letting his arms drop to his sides. What force in the universe could stand against him and his umpires?  
  
"Well, well, Nine point Seven Five," he hissed. "Who's thrown the first pitch?" *********  
Evening two aboard the Flying Walkman. No improvement whatsoever.  
  
Aragorn was still very, very seasick. There was still nothing to do but watch the waves splash by (which only made his stomach feel worse), read romance novels, and sleep, which wasn't exactly an easy thing to do either, courtesy of a certain mutant.  
  
Right now, Britney was mercifully below deck, helping Gruntos, the ship's galley cook, prepare Gruntos' Famous Meat and Potato Dinner. Gruntos had invited her to help prepare breakfast that day, for some reason, and then lunch, and now at dinner Britney had finally rolled her eyes and agreed to come. Why the lads would actually want her anywhere near them, Aragorn didn't know, but hey, he wasn't complaining, as it kept her off him.  
  
Thank heavens she was gone; now he could sleep at last. All day, he had only to close his eyes and Britney would come scuttling over, making little sheep-type noises and gazing wetly at him. Once or twice she had even started to sing something, but of course that had brought the rest of the Walkers down on her head, and when Luke grabbed her in a rather unsubtle attempt to wring her neck she finally got the message and shut up. Of course, she then began to sniffle and predictably turned to Aragorn for comfort, but he had taken advantage of Luke's attack and slithered away up the mast. Now he was on unofficial crow's nest duty.  
  
Lucky it was unofficial, because he was pretty much asleep.  
  
The mast swayed gently from side to side, rather like a cradle. The crow's nest was pretty much like a cradle too: it was about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. Not that size mattered much to Aragorn, who could have slept anywhere by this point. He realized that he must look rather silly, flopped on his back with his feet dangling out through the crow's nest railings, Flaming, Burning Passion propped open on his stomach, and another day's growth of beard stubble making the green-bean hue of his face much more apparent. (Even the seagulls wheeling overhead were snickering at him, though he was not to know this.)  
  
Suddenly, an all-to-familiar drawling voice cut into his dreams of Roughly Central Earth, accompanied by the clunking of Gruntos' tree-trunk feet up the ladder and the clinking of plates.  
  
"Dinner, all you guys and gals!" Britney yelled, whacking on a large tin plate. "Dinner!"  
  
There was a rousing, "Hurrah!" from the lads, and a sudden scuffle to find seats on water barrels. Slowly, reluctantly, Aragorn opened his eyes and pulled himself upright, sending the dog-eared romance novel plummeting fifty feet to the deck below. His stomach gave a huge lurch. Gods, why did dinnertime have to exist? The scent of roast beef wafting up from the deck below was making him feel extremely nauseous. Now that's an idea, he thought woozily, grabbing the railing and hauling himself to his feet. When I'm King in Gondor, I'll ban dinnertime. That would make me very popular with seasick people. Except that Gondor is three hundred miles from the ocean, so seasick people aren't a critical majority. Hmmm. Have to think about it.  
  
"Oh Aragorn," Britney called in a singsong voice. "Dinnertime, Aragorn!"  
  
Aragorn swung one leg over the edge of the crow's nest, slipped and let out a spectacular wounded-tiger yell. Britney squealed as well, sounding very hurt. Just as well, Aragorn figured, swinging his other leg over onto the rigging. The more she thinks I hate her, the less she'll like me. Imagine what Arwen would think if she found out I have a bird- woman tagging after me every minute of the day.  
  
The thought dissolved into a mental shudder. Arwen was not a lady to be reckoned with. Seeing as her favorite game was commonly known as "Troll Bowling" (rules: one, knock out a mountain troll somehow; two, grab it around the middle and throw it at things) he didn't want to get on her bad side.  
  
Thinking of Arwen made the sting of being away from Roughly Central Earth more painful, so Aragorn decided to stop thinking. His stomach lurched again, presumably from loneliness, as he scrambled down the rigging.  
  
A minute or two later he was back on deck, and there was one barrel- chair left. Urgos, first mate of the Walkman, was eyeing it predatorily. Aragorn was in a bad mood, however, and if he had to sit and watch other people eat, he wanted to sit and watch other people eat. He smiled at Urgos and waved his dagger at him in a good-natured sort of way. Urgos got the point, and plopped himself down on the ground, letting Aragorn have the seat.  
  
The rest of the lads looked deeply impressed.  
  
Aragorn was starting to worry. The lads seemed to resent Odysseus, and admire him.  
  
If there was a mutiny, he really would kill himself.  
  
This pleasant strain of thought was broken by Britney, of course. Having finished doling out gobbets of pot roast and mashed potatoes to the crew, she noticed there were no barrels left."  
  
"Oh dear," she simpered, looking straight at Aragorn. "There seem to be no chairs left. I'll have to share a seat with someone? Now who would- "  
  
Instantly the lads were on their feet, waving their arms and bellowing, "Me! Me! I have a vacancy!"  
  
Aragorn's stomach lurched again, this time so hard he was knocked back against the barrels. My, my, this was quite some stomachache. He'd never had one this bad before.  
  
Britney was now stalking though the rows of crewmen, her eyes fixed, predictably, on Aragorn.  
  
"I think Aragorn's got the nicest seat on the ship," she said loudly. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I joined him."  
  
Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but his stomach suddenly gave such an immense lurch that the Flying Walkman flew ten feet into the air and landed with a huge splat several yards from where it started.  
  
Instantly the tone of the lads' bellows changed. Now they were waving around short (and beautifully maintained) swords, and yelling about war and honor and glory. Aragorn flushed a little, astounded that his own stomach could have produced such a tremendous reaction, when suddenly a giant hand snatched him out of the boat and lifted him into the air by his bootlace.  
  
Aragorn nearly had a heart attack.  
  
Yelling madly and trying to grab his sword, Aragorn looked around him for the source of this tremendous indignity. It was rather difficult, as he was swinging around upside down and his head was throbbing from all the blood rushing into it. However, he managed to thrash around until he was facing the monster, staring right into its dreadful face.  
  
Aragorn let out a gasp as all his blood went cold. (His head now felt like a freezer.) Never before had he seen such a beast, such a fearful beast, so horrible in its utter irrationality. It possessed the head of a pin, and likewise the eye of a needle. However, it had the mouth of a river, the teeth of a storm, a cold shoulder, the arm of the law, the hand of fate and the leg of a journey. Worst of all, through its nonexistent hide Aragorn could see the heart of the matter pulsing grotesquely in the middle of its chest of drawers, churning up its nonexistent blood.  
  
Fifty feet down, on the deck of the Flying Walkman, the lads had gone very, very quiet.  
  
"There is evil afoot!" he heard Odysseus calling from far off. "We are no longer safe here!"  
  
There was a sudden scuffle as the lads all tried to climb through the trapdoors at once.  
  
So he was alone. Aragorn quickly reviewed his options, which appeared to be 1) stay where he was and get eaten by the giant whatever-it- was, and 2) try to break free and fall fifty feet onto the deck, where the impact would certainly reduce him to a gelatinous state.  
  
Aragorn looked down at the seven people still on deck, looked up into the hideous squashed face of the whatever-it-was, and decided he would die fighting. Swinging around again, he clumsily drew his sword, which promptly flopped backward and sliced his nose. Barely managing to steady the huge blade, he shook blood out of his eyes and faced the giant fingers that held his bootlaces. One cut, he figured, one accurate cut to the forefinger and he would be free. Then he would fall and trust in God (Adonai, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Manitou, etc.) to do the rest.  
  
"Be careful, Aragorn!" Beatrice yelled from below. "It's the dreaded Idiomox of Gibraltar! One bite from its river-mouth and you'll be reduced to speaking in idioms all your life! Two bites and you'll become a thing like it, with the head of a pin and a chest of drawers! 'Tis a terrible fate! Don't let it hurt you!"  
  
Britney shrieked helpfully, scuttling around in circles like a decapitated chicken.  
  
Aragorn gulped and gripped his sword more tightly. The great blazing eye of the needle was fixed hungrily on his face, and a wagon tongue was lolling wetly inside the Idiomox's mouth. He squinched up what little courage he possessed, trying to imagine a life in which he could speak nothing but idioms, and swung his sword back over his head.  
  
"To infinity, and beyond!" he yelled, and swung the sword at the Idiomox's forefinger.  
  
A little blood welled up from the gash his sword left in the immense finger, and the Idiomox let out the roar of the surf. The wind of change produced by the roar almost sent Aragorn plummeting down to the deck, but the Idiomox, clearly not going to give its prey up that easily, grabbed Aragorn's ankle and yanked him towards its yawning river-mouth. It intended to idiomize Aragorn, that much was plain, and it didn't make Aragorn happy. Once more Aragorn raised his sword, hacking at the finger in a last, desperate bid for freedom.  
  
Then a sort of red mist clouded his eyes and he was floating gently away. In the distance someone was yelling and whacking madly at the Idiomox, but Aragorn couldn't imagine who it might be. In fact, he wasn't exactly sure who he was, or where he was. Everything was hazy.  
  
"Out, damned spot!" the figure was shrieking. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, but call me Ishmael! You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape my love-" Each word was punctuated by another slash of the sword, and another roar of surf from the Idiomox-  
  
And suddenly Aragorn was Aragorn again, and found himself falling sickeningly through the air, down, down, towards the deck of the Flying Walkman far below.  
  
He was falling, he realized. He was going to be liquidized. He was going to die. He had escaped the Idiomox, but he was going to die anyway.  
  
"Arwen!" he shrieked, but the wind rushing around him tore the word to pieces as soon as it left his mouth. "Gandalf! Mother! Mother! HELP ME!!!!"  
  
Britney's shrieks reached a fever pitch, but they were all starting to fade away now. His life was flashing before his eyes, hour by hour, minute by minute.  
  
My, my, thought Aragorn dizzily. I did spend a lot of time sleeping, didn't I?  
  
And then he hit the deck.  
  
And plunged through the deck.  
  
And landed smack dab on top of Gruntos and Urgos where they were cowering in the hold, the wind completely knocked out of him, his body already bruising where he had hit the deck and several thousand splinters jabbing into him at odd angles.  
  
There was one final roar of surf outside, and a huge splash of water. It sounded as though the Idiomox had accepted its defeat, and was heading off for other quarry. Thank heavens his chopping work had come to some good use. That might make him feel better about the splinters.  
  
Gruntos and Urgos seemed as stunned as he was, so the three of them just lay there for a minute, trying to regain their breath and their bearings. Gruntos was shuddering and staring into space with a glazed look, rather like that of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, or a man with whom a tiger has suddenly decided to play. Urgos appeared to be completely unconscious. Aragorn, of course, was still trying to recover from the shock of falling fifty feet and not even breaking any bones. Also, he was fruitlessly attempting to reconcile himself to how much of his life he had devoted to sleeping.  
  
Then the splinters in his back decided to make themselves known, and he sat up with a yowl.  
  
There was the sound of an echoing yowl-Britney. Then seven pairs of footsteps came pattering over to the hole in the deck, and six very pale faces leaned over the edge and peered down into the darkness of the hold. (The seventh face, being permanently gold-varnished, could not physically be pale, but Aragorn assumed SOS was concerned anyhow.)  
  
"Holy mother of avocados," Han breathed after several long moments. "The guy's alive!"  
  
A huge, artificial smile split Britney's face down the middle. With a joyous flap of her wings, she raised her head and began to sing the first verse to some obscure pop song, making Aragorn's head pound. Luke and Leia screamed and began clubbing her over the head with paperback romances. Britney swiped at them in protest, and three faces vanished from the hole.  
  
Beatrice, Odysseus, Han, and SOS, however, were still staring at him as though he was a ghost.  
  
Finally, Beatrice whispered, "I absolutely don't believe it. You're alive, King-bro. You have to be the only person ever to escape from the clutches of the Idiomox, seriously.They didn't choose you to be one of the Nine and Three Quarters for nothing. Congratulations. I'll have to submit this to McGillarvey's Book of Universal Records as soon as I get back to Vuebegon."  
  
Aragorn groaned and tried to sit up, making the splinters in his legs hurt worse.  
  
"I'm sorry.about the deck, Odysseus," he croaked. "Didn't.know.I would cause so much collateral damage."  
  
"No problem." Odysseus waved a dismissive hand. "The Walkman's seen worse than holes through her deck. She's a hardy little ship. I'm just glad you're alive."  
  
"Yes," squealed SOS, "we are all perfectly delighted to see you in a fully functional state, Master Aragorn! Except that we wants you dead I would like to extend my personal congratulations to the vanquisher of such a dreadful beast kill you, kill you all."  
  
Aragorn was hardly listening to this. The pain of the splinters was starting to make him decidedly woozy.  
  
"-I don't know how you did it," SOS was rambling, "you just took your sword as bravely as you please and wham!-I do declare, Master Aragorn, are you all right?"  
  
Aragorn groaned again, watching the world dissolve into little flecks of black.  
  
"Master Aragorn? Oh, I do think he's going to faint! Master Aragorn?"  
  
"That hurt," Aragorn muttered, his head lolling unpleasantly.  
  
"Good!" SOS hissed. "We wants you dead-"  
  
Han slugged SOS in his metallic ear. SOS started and protested, in a perfectly normal voice, "Well, I do believe that was uncalled for! Really- "  
  
"Shut up, you two," Beatrice said urgently. "We need to get him up and into the cabin before he keels over. Hang on, Aragorn, I'm coming down."  
  
There was a scuffle of footsteps. Aragorn looked up one last time at the peaceful evening sky, and fainted. 


	10. Britney's Sorrow

Chapter X  
.09248757329100039385038457204811028750347043857348103701744412.  
  
Slider the Umpire wrinkled his mutated nose, readjusted his mask, and wondered vaguely why there was a long string of numbers running through his head.  
  
There was no logical explanation for them; that was certain. He had simply been walking through the darkness at the head of his umpire legion, leading the search into the Vuebegonian Mines of Murphy, when a sort of computer screen-type thing clicked on in his brain and numbers began scrolling across his brain. Slider had no idea what the numbers could mean, in fact, he had no idea what the numbers even signified. Umpires had not been bred to be mathematicians. But he knew they were numbers, and he knew that they were not supposed to be there.  
  
Shrugging his shoulders, he set off down the tunnel at a faster pace, baring his teeth at the First Base umpire, his second-in-command.  
  
"Keep them moving," he growled, because he felt he had to growl at something. Slider enjoyed growling.  
  
The First Base nodded, hissed, and bellowed something at the umpire legions in back of him. There was a scuffle of cleats, and the pace picked up, a deep tramp, tramp, tramp echoing ominously throughout the Mines. They had to find the Seed of the Master Turnip as quickly as possible, or Lord Vader would have a nasty surprise waiting for them when they got back.  
  
But there were still numbers scrolling through Slider's head, row after row of them, in no particular order. Unnerved, he picked up his pace a bit more.  
  
Then, quite unexpectedly, a vision of a tiny, white-haired, red-eyed man flashed across his eyes. The man was hunched in a very small space between a wall and something metal, and his hands were stained with blue ink. Slider was very startled. What was a little old man doing in the middle of the Mines of Murphy? He wondered if he was hallucinating.  
  
But then the voice came, a tiny, withered voice in his head, cracking like frosty leaves underfoot. It sounded as though it had not been used in a long time.  
  
Oh dear, the voice said. My, oh my, the paper's disappeared. My Pi calculations! But...what's this...there's a picture in front of me.good gracious!  
  
Slider growled furiously. Lightyears away, Shnibbidy Bob Joe smiled in delighted amazement at the strange things he was witnessing through his arithmetic paper. Life was certainly getting interesting.  
  
************  
  
"The secret to this-all of this-is irrationality. Without irrationality to distract the laws of nature, no one is able to travel between dimensions. And obviously, that is the function of the Root Vegetables: they are grown with some Irrationality Fertilizer, which makes them capable of opening a Tunnel of Irrationality between times. That is Vader's secret. The real secret, however, is how exactly Vader makes his fertilizer. What could possibly be so irrational as to impart irrationality onto anything it touches? And how could it be condensed into a fertilizer?"  
  
"You-you mean you don't know, Beatrice?"  
  
"Odie, I'm not omniscient. I have no view into the mind of the Dark Lord. He is the greatest of us all, you know. The first and greatest."  
  
"But evil. An evil genius."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But if he's a genius, how do we hope to thwart him with this pathetic lot?"  
  
Britney let out a heavy sigh and stopped listening. The Ancients were talking again, but none of it made any sense to her. She had watched the video, but she really didn't care about the quest. She was only sticking around because of the one person who didn't want her to stick around, otherwise she would be back with her flock of Loser Sirens. So sad, so sad.  
  
The bark of the willow branch was very rough on her feet. It was not the most comfortable perch she had ever spent the night on. Bitterly she wished that Odysseus had let them stay on the ship, but he had ordered everyone ashore on the grounds that the Idiomox might return at any time and they would be safer on land. She was thus resigned to sleeping in a tree, or rather, trying to sleep, watching the man with the sword she was so madly in love with. So sad, so sad.  
  
The hours were growing longer as the night grew older. Odysseus and Beatrice hadn't slept a wink, either, but all the others in the party were fast asleep. Including Aragorn. At least his being asleep meant she got to stare at him without anyone whacking her over the head. For heaven's sake, she had only known them a day, and they were already whacking her. Now that was courtesy if she had ever seen it. She wondered if it would do to start crying, just so someone would notice how bored she was. Probably not; everyone seemed to sleep like rocks, except for Aragorn, who seemed to have a subconscious sensor that warned him when she approached.  
  
Maybe Aragorn would keep her company. She would make him fall in love with her, if it was the last thing she did! Who cared that she was only three-quarters human? The rest of the idiotic crew obviously didn't, although they were delusional if they though she was worth their time. She was premium, she was, and Aragorn was the only man handsome enough to equal her.  
  
She wondered why everyone else seemed to like Beatrice. He was okay, but he wasn't Aragorn.  
  
Aragorn. Aragorn. She would just have to chase him, hang around him til he noticed her.  
  
Now she knew what to do! She would wake him up with a quiet song, just to remind him that she was there, and very, very lonely. Maybe he would be so grateful he'd start to like her a little. As a Siren, singing was her specialty.  
  
She wondered why she'd been placed in the Union of Loser Sirens.  
  
Stealthily she flapped down from the tree and waddled over to Aragorn on her avian legs, kicking up dead leaves and branches as she went. Aragorn grunted and rolled over as she approached, muttering something about pie. She sat down by his head, listening for a moment as a nonsensical string of numbers came jumbling out of his mouth. Then she cleared her throat importantly, took a deep breath, and prepared to work her magic on the handsome man.  
  
"Fa la LAAAAAA!!!!" she sang by way of introduction. She ran a quick inventory of all the songs she knew, still holding the "la." Which was the most enchanting?  
  
Then, abruptly, Aragorn sat bolt upright and yelled, flinging covers everywhere.  
  
For a moment he sat, wide-eyed and drenched with sweat, as though he was paralyzed with fear. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head and shot a blood-freezing glare at Britney; with an alarmed squawk she recoiled and hopped backward several feet. Aragorn's hand clenched into a fist over an invisible neck, and he bared his teeth furiously.  
  
"How many times," he growled, "have we told you not to sing in front of us? You'll kill us all! Blast it, my horse sings better than you!"  
  
Britney's obligatory sobs were drowned out by the sudden rush of sweet, angelic singing that arose from the thicket of olive trees farther up the slope. A brilliant white radiance flooded the clearing, causing all of the Walkers and the crew to stir and mutter in their sleep. Closer the light drew, and closer, until the thunder of hoofbeats could be heard over the singing, and a shining golden muzzle appeared through the haze. Aragorn's eyes bugged rather unbecomingly.  
  
"And that horse," he said slowly, "sings better than my horse."  
  
Tremendously nettled, so nettled in fact that she forgot to fake-cry, Britney listened to the singer's heavenly voice as it stirred the sleeping troops. The words were in a language she did not know, but somehow they imparted a great feeling of peace and harmony (except of course to Britney, whose thoughts were currently running along the lines of kill! Kill!):  
Y rhin ail y rhin d cwen, d cwen,  
  
Amn na ath tsan cy y rhin, d cwen Thet ail, d cwen, anie sa rhin ail sa iaridan Asa Ed.  
  
Y rhin ail y rhin, d cwen, d cwen Amn echa ath'il tsan arn dyne iatsa ail then Don na-mir astath cy y tsanan rhin?  
  
Iall astian cy echa:*  
  
And then a second voice, deeper, male, with a queer sort of whinnying note to it:  
  
I am Mister Ed!  
All of a sudden the entire crew of the Flying Walkman was sitting up in their squashy purple sleeping bags, staring at the singing light and the golden horse just beginning to come into focus. Britney was rooted to the spot, petrified, as the horse wheeled unexpectedly around and began to canter in slow motion towards her. What kind of unearthly thing was going on here? A horse was a horse, of course, of course, and no one could talk to a horse, of course! Horses didn't sing. Where was the justice?  
  
But then, a few feet away, the horse stopped abruptly, tossing its magnificent cream-colored mane with a cheerful whinny. And then, a bright figure swung gracefully off the horse's back; it was a woman, on closer inspection, clad entirely in white, with long dark hair spilling down to her waist and a silver splint on her right arm. She patted the golden horse on the neck, walked forward.and stepped suddenly out of the bright haze, heading straight for Aragorn's sleeping bag.  
  
Now Britney could see her clearly. It was a woman, abnormally tall, with snappy gray eyes and-strangely enough-pointy ears, the tips of which poked up through her masses of hair. Britney ground her perfectly whitened teeth. All of a sudden everyone was staring at the stranger, including the crew. They were supposed to worship her! Not abnormally tall people with deformed ears who came riding unexpectedly into camp on-singing?-horses. Still more nettling was Aragorn, who was staring raptly at the newcomer, almost as though she wasn't a stranger to him at all. Britney's claws were beginning to scrape the ground in a vaguely threatening way. She didn't like stuck-up competition.  
  
Then,  
  
"Arwen, pardon my Black Speech, but how the hell did you get here?" Aragorn was staring at the lady with a mixture of joy and disbelief. "Don't tell me you-"  
  
"Yep," the lady responded. Her voice was mid-range and sort of husky, extremely annoying to Britney. "I found a carrot. Me dad always said not to go wandering around in the forest, or I was a sure to meet a sticky end, and by Elbereth he was right. For once. Dumb rabbit food."  
  
The lady reached into her white dress-apparently it had pockets that Britney couldn't see-and pulled out a small withered carrot. She tossed it onto the ground in front of Aragorn, who continued staring up at her in a decidedly golden-retriever-ish manner.  
  
"How'd-how'd you get to Greece, then? Instead of getting stuck with a bunch of lost crusaders, like I did?"  
  
"You think I know? You think I care? I landed at your campsite; you complaining?"  
  
"Of course not!" Aragorn stood up hastily, and Britney turned around to mutter a few swear words so awful that Earthlings could not even conceive of them, no matter how they tried (so don't bother). When she turned around again, Aragorn was pulling the newcomer behind a tree, oblivious to the fascinated stares of the crew, who found this sort of thing immensely amusing. There was a distinct noise, and suddenly the crew began muttering about technical details like a crowd at an intense Pakrian Mind Surfing match.  
  
They had, after all, spent years on the high seas with nothing to do but read romance novels.  
  
After a couple minutes the two emerged from behind the tree again, grinning sheepishly and waving at the gawking crew. Several of the crewmen turned rather red as the lady waved at them, making Britney even angrier. Not only was the newcomer stealing the man, she was stealing all the men.  
  
Kill, kill, said the little wicked voice inside her head.  
  
"Kill the she-Elf," hissed SOS-180, then, "Oh, hello, mistress, it certainly is good to see you here! How may I help you?"  
  
Beatrice, however, was staring at the woman with neither awe (the crew) nor blind adoration (Aragorn). In fact, he was looking rather excited, and hopeful, and looking not at her face but at the silver splint on her arm.  
  
"Pardon me for ruining the moment," he said after a minute, "but were you singing in High Whelkish a minute ago?"  
  
"High Whelkish?" The lady turned around and glanced at Beatrice incredulously. "What do you mean, High Whelkish? I was speaking in Elvish; learn your cultural anthropology."  
  
"Many pardons," Beatrice dipped his head respectfully, although he was looking more excited by the second. "So I would be right then in assuming that you are an Elf?"  
  
"Yes, er."  
  
"Beatrice," Beatrice prompted.  
  
The lady raised her eyebrows but didn't comment further.  
  
"Right. Beatrice. Yes, I am an Elf. Wish I wasn't. All the other Elves are so blasted boring."  
  
The smile on Beatrice's face grew slowly into a grin.  
  
"And how, if I may ask, did you break your arm?" He nodded at the splint.  
  
"That?" Arwen looked down and wrinkled her nose. "Oh. I was really bored, so I challenged a passing Ringwraith to a thumb war."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I won by a mile."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I don't think the wraith was too happy about it."  
  
"Ah!" Beatrice sat up a little straighter. He looked as if he was on the verge of leaping to his feet. "And you frequently do things like challenging demons of Mordor to thumb-wrestling tournaments?"  
  
"Does she do crazy things frequently?" Aragorn cut in. "Man, you're telling me. You don't know how many times she's scared me to death: horse racing, leaping off cliffs with a rope attached to her waist, going over the Falls of Rauros in a barrel, Troll Bowling.I could go on for years. She's broken her neck twice, you know; hasn't died yet."  
  
He glanced reprovingly at the lady, who smiled innocently back. Then he wrapped one arm around her waist and bent down again-Britney ground her teeth-  
  
And fortunately, for both Britney and the author's sanity, as she is still trying to figure out why she had to throw romance into the story, as she cannot write it worth you-know-what, Beatrice leapt to his feet and began energetically pumping the lady's hand.  
  
"Welcome, welcome!" he practically shouted. "So pleased to have you here! Ladies and gentlemen-" Here he turned to the large group of people in sleeping bags behind him-"I am proud to introduce the seventh whole member of the Nine and Three Quarters, er."  
  
"Arwen Evenstar," the lady prompted, "but you can call me Bob."  
  
"Arwen Evenstar!" Beatrice finished. "I think we'll call you Arwen, unless you'd strongly prefer the other. All right, ma'am, welcome to the crazy gang."  
  
Arwen raised her eyebrows again.  
  
"The Nine and Three Quarters," Aragorn said helpfully. "You must be the Reckless Elf-Maid mentioned in the poem. We're going on a quest, see to find these things-Root Vegetables-"  
  
"Leave it for the morning." Beatrice waved away the explanation. "I'll show her the History of the Universe PBS special. Now, I think we all need to get some sleep, if we're to make any progress tomorrow-"  
  
"Yes, let's get some sleep," Aragorn and Arwen said simultaneously.  
  
Britney was tempted to start singing one of her favorite tragic rejection songs, but as she opened her mouth she noticed Princess Leia watching her intently, her hand resting on a hefty rock beside her sleeping back. Meeting Britney's gaze, she grimaced, muttered, "Don't," and patted the rock meaningfully.  
  
Not only did nobody love her anymore; nobody even liked her. Why was she chosen to be the outcast of this group? It wasn't fair! She was beautiful! She was unusual! She could sing, blast it!"  
  
But no one was paying any attention to her.  
  
"Sleep, you two," Beatrice said sternly. "We need to be up very, very early tomorrow, since we've lost a day en route to the Cyclops's Island. It'll be all aboard the Walkman around six, just so you know."  
  
"Okay," Aragorn and Arwen said simultaneously.  
  
"Everyone," Beatrice yelled. "Back to sleep!"  
  
Instantly every head in the house was down on their sleeping bag, and a couple dozen fake snores rent the air at the same time. Beatrice scowled, snorted, and did a peculiar levitation trick which ended somehow with him tucked back in his sleeping bag, though it was rather impossible to follow the rest.  
  
Britney scowled and fluttered back up into the lower branches of the willow. She sniffed loudly and tucked her head under her wing, furious at the world in general and Arwen in particular, as she had stolen Aragorn from Beatrice and now had the nerve to accept a sleeping bag when by rights of seniority Britney should have had it. Why couldn't Arwen try sleeping in a tree for a night?  
  
At that instant, a Giant Mediterranean Symphonic Mosquito flew directly into her head, knocking her completely unconscious and thus out of the tree. At least she was also out of her misery.  
  
**************  
  
The next day had passed without event, as far as Britney was concerned.  
  
They had risen and clambered aboard the Flying Walkman early as promised, everyone but Odysseus and Beatrice yawning and complaining vehemently about the ungodly hour. Beatrice had snapped, Odysseus had been cheerfully adamant, and despite all the groaning breakfast was prepared for all (only slightly undercooked). Then the Walkman had set off onto the open sea, and it was all blue waves and sky after that.  
  
Sometime near midday Beatrice had taken Arwen in to see the History of the Universe PBS special, and she had come out looking tremendously enthused and begging Beatrice to let her wrestle the Cyclops. Beatrice was trying to explain why it was impossible to take on the Cyclops single-handedly, the rest of the crew was staring at Arwen, and Britney was dutifully grinding her teeth while doing some research in the romance novels. She hissed at Arwen every time she walked by, but each time Arwen only smiled cordially and hissed back, so she wasn't getting anywhere with that tactic.  
  
And now the sun was setting, and Beatrice was grinding her teeth even harder and researching more desperately. Evenings were going to be annoying times from now on, she guessed.  
  
In the prow of the boat stood Aragorn and Arwen, looking out westward towards the immense expanse of open sea before them with starry eyes. Aragorn had his arms around Arwen's waist, and Arwen was leaning far out over the railing with her arms spread out to either side like some kind of bizarre bird-wannabe. Arwen seemed to be putting a lot of trust in Aragorn to hold her up, since her toes were just barely touching the deck. Aragorn was muttering something into Arwen's unnatural pointy ear, which, fortunately for all concerned, Britney was too far away to catch.  
  
As Britney sat and ground her teeth (she wondered how long it would take before all the enamel wore off her molars) a snippet of mysterious song floated past on the breeze. Britney didn't recognize it, being from the ancient past; on Earth it is commonly attributed to Celine Dion, although it was in truth written by Professor D.C. Shnarble of Vuebegon Interplanetary University. This is not known by many Earth people, however, as Earth people have a tendency to stubbornly refuse to see the truth, even when it is bouncing six inches in front of them doing the Macerana.  
  
This particular beautiful song is among the best-known of D.C. Shnarble's works, although certainly not the only example of fine composing under his name. He is the composer of symphonies innumerable, and in addition is accredited with having written the longest known gong solo in classical music (2 hours, 17 minutes. Because of this rather extraordinary length of time, the piece is usually labeled, Gong Solo-Dennis Flynn on programs, rather then by its proper name, Shnarble's Symphony in Ursa Major.)  
  
Incidentally, Dennis Flynn is the only widely recognized gong soloist in the entire universe.  
  
But anyway, Dennis Flynn, the Symphony in Ursa Major, and gong solos do not enter this story until much, much later. Right now, all my dear reader needs to know about is the "Celine Dion" song.  
  
Britney (who of course hadn't had anything to with the last three paragraphs) was watching the touching romantic scene grimly, trying to ignore the music invading her head.  
  
"Near, Far, Wherever you are-"  
  
Aragorn had begun singing along, although almost too quietly to hear-  
  
"I believe that the heart will-WHOOPS!"  
  
There was a shriek and a loud splash, and then Aragorn was bending anxiously over the side of the boat. There was no longer any sign of Arwen.  
  
"Arwen?" he called, "Arwen? You okay?"  
  
There was a bit more splashing, and a gurgle.  
  
Then,  
  
"Yes, of course I'm okay! I went over Rauros Falls in a barrel, remember? Say, that was fun! You think you could drop me from the crow's nest next time."  
  
Britney turned away, snickering, and waddled off towards the galley ladder. By the time Aragorn managed to haul a dripping Arwen back on deck, she was safely out of sight, hidden among mountains of beef sirloin and potatoes. Although she had a feeling the indignity wouldn't keep the two apart for long, their enchanted evening was spoiled, and that was enough to make Britney's day. 


	11. Looking to Crash the Cyclops's Party

Chapter XI  
  
.183474028426554628345625423445462456236551236844546235455087017.  
  
Deep, deep in the darkness, where even the cave bats feared to fly, something was stirring in the Mines of Murphy.  
  
In its sleep it snuffled and turned over, its nose twitching. It was still mostly in hibernation. For over three thousand years it had slumbered thus, sprawled across the pitch-black maw of the cavern, undisturbed by light or sound. The Vuebegonian men who worked the mines knew of its presence, for once before their ancestors had delved to far, and too deep, and had met an unhappy end. They took care to let the sleeping thing lie, and would go nowhere near the tunnel into the darkness.  
  
But now, far overhead, the steady tramp, tramp of cleats on stone echoed through the Mines, loosening pebbles set for untold ages and sending the blind cave salamanders cowering into the depths of their subterranean pools. Slider and his umpires were on the move, searching, ever searching for the Seed that their master wanted so desperately. And Slider knew that he was not far away from his goal.  
  
What he didn't know was that there was more than the Seed hidden in the deep places of Vuebegon.  
  
It grunted again in its sleep and flicked its tail. The strip of paper around its neck crinkled as it shifted restlessly, smearing the already-blurry numbers with mud.  
  
Shnibbidy Bob Joe wrote down another number on his paper. How many digits was he into Pi?  
  
He didn't know.  
  
*********  
  
The wind was blowing crisply from the west, the Flying Walkman's sails were billowing like immense pieces of white laundry, and they were clipping along at quite a good pace, considering how slow they had been traveling the past three days. That in itself was something to be glad about, Leia thought, setting down Burning Passionate Flame, as she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand sitting around on deck doing nothing. The Beatles were her only consolation, and she found that, unfortunately, even "Nowhere Man" was losing its power to lift her spirits. There was, after all, only so many romance novels a normal person could read every day without going insane, or, more to the point, only so many an insane person could read before going even more insane. Leia was currently on the threshold of going more insane.  
  
She had gone around the ship earlier that day, asking everyone what they were doing to keep from going more insane. Luke, deeply immersed in War, NOT Peace, had growled at her and told her to bug off. Britney had moaned and sobbed and stared at Aragorn for a little bit before Leia gave up and left. Beatrice had told her to try counting every single wave, Odysseus had asked her to write a heroic speech for him, Han Solo had offered her a solid gold-and-ivory chess set, and Arwen and Aragorn were not in a position to answer. SOS-180 had hummed and muttered something about assassinating the Prince.  
  
So Leia was still bored. She sighed, turned her headset up to full volume, and flopped back against the mast. It was extraordinary how exhausting doing nothing could be.  
Then, quite unexpectedly, the Flying Walkman was surrounded in very thick, very dark, very chilly fog. In fact, it could hardly be called fog, seeing as it was pitch black in color, and had a load of little purple lights glinting in it. Suddenly freezing, Leia sat up.  
  
The running figure of Odysseus materialized from the dimness aft, waving its muscled arms.  
  
"This is no normal sea-fog!" Odysseus cried. "Some fell power works against us!"  
Then the swearing began, and it became difficult to hear anything.  
  
Great Ringo preserve us, Leia thought, twisting the hem of her T- shirt nervously between her fingers. This is definitely not North Dakota. Oh, yes. What else is new?  
  
******  
  
Thanks to the enchanted fog, they didn't spot the Cyclop's island until they ran into it.  
  
The blinded people on the deck of the Flying Walkman had no idea that there was a large landmass dead ahead of them. Odysseus continued to shout orders at the crew, none of which were obeyed, but it didn't really matter, because they couldn't see anything anyway. Then there had been a decidedly unsettling screech of wood on stone, a tremendous jolt, and then a dead silence.  
  
It took everyone several seconds to realize that the Flying Walkman was no longer moving forward.  
  
When the crew realized it, there was a new storm of swearing.  
  
However, Odysseus, being rather out of the mental league of his crewmen, realized that they had probably reached their destination, and whooped loudly. He was stared at. The crewmen somehow managed to stare and swear at the same time.  
  
"Don't you see what this means, everyone?" he cried, waving his arms enthusiastically. "Be quiet-don't you see?"  
  
"No," someone said testily.  
  
"Come on, people!" Now Beatrice took up the call. "We've reached our goal! We're at the Cyclops's Island!"  
  
"Fame and fortune and all that good stuff!" Odysseus yelled.  
  
The crew paid no attention to their captain.  
  
Judging by the look of exasperation on Aragorn's face, he had gotten it, too. Leia watched, rather hoping he wouldn't blow up like he had in the Yoshimoto Sushi Bar. She didn't think the crewmen would like being whacked at with a sword, no matter how much they liked him now.  
  
But instead of going into battle mode, Aragorn stood up, waved his arms and bellowed, "Hey! You heard them, everybody! Shut up!"  
  
The crew instantly shut up, every man standing stiffly at attention, eyes fixed on Aragorn. They could have been a bunch of topless Marines in lionskin underwear.  
  
Oddly enough, at this display of discipline Aragorn blanched-why couldn't he learn to stop doing that; it looked awful with the beard stubble-and swallowed hard.  
  
"Thank-thank you," he stammered, sitting down again. "I'm sure your leader appreciates it."  
  
Several people in the crowd grumbled. Aragorn gulped again, but Odysseus seemed totally oblivious.  
  
"Yes, thank you all," he said. "My fellows, my soldiers, my mighty heroes! The time has come to prove your mettle! Beyond this wall of mist, there waits an island populated by unimaginable terrors! Honor and death and glory at every hand! Together, my men, we will wrest this root vegetable from the hand of Polyphemus, the vile Cyclops! The bards shall sing of us!"  
  
Muttering. Han looked skeptical, Luke looked seasick, Aragorn was trying to hide from the crew behind Arwen. Leia felt slightly queasy herself; minus the "death" that list of things might be all right, but even honor and glory tended to be chancy things.  
  
"So, what are you waiting for?" Odysseus roared, worked up to his full heroic fervor. "Lower the gangplank, lads! To battle we go!"  
  
The lads looked at each other skeptically, then nodded. Someone in the back kicked open the trapdoor that led to the hold.  
  
"Goodbye, great leader," Urgos grunted, bowing low.  
  
Then everyone scrambled for the trapdoor at once, leaving the Walkers alone on deck.  
  
Odysseus snorted.  
  
"Heroes! And all the kings said they were giving me their heroes. What a load of loonies. I couldn't make a proper fighting band out of them if I tried." He turned to the people remaining on deck. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to make do, then. Heroic sacrifice and all that good stuff. By Gods, I'll have that vegetable from Polyphemus before he knows what's hit him! All, ashore, mates!"  
  
With the others reluctantly trailing along behind him, Odysseus strode to the bow of the ship, where Leia assumed the gangplank was.  
  
Or maybe not. Instead, Odysseus hopped up on the ship's rail, spread his arms wide, and cried, "Gods be with me!"  
  
Then he jumped off the prow of the ship.  
  
A second later there was a very dull thud, and a yelp of, "Ow! Oh, there I've gone and scraped my blasted shins again."  
  
Odysseus's violently orange head appeared over the edge of the ship. Then his torso appeared, down to his waist.  
  
"It's all right," he said solemnly. "The fall isn't too great. I only suffered minor bruises. Nothing a hero can't take."  
  
"How far is it, exactly?" Arwen sounded genuinely interested. Leia wondered if the strange pointy-eared woman was suicidal, or just very, very stupid. She seemed to talk about jumping off high things a great deal, as well as giving quite a lot of tips on ways to knock out mountain trolls. The lads spent most of their time listening to her stories.  
  
Odysseus bent over and quickly measured the distance with his eyes.  
  
"Oh, it's.about two feet, I should say." He turned a little red round the ears. "No, wait, on this side it's more like three.and if you took away all the rocks it would be almost five..."  
  
"Okay, thanks," said Arwen hurriedly.  
  
For a minute or so the Walkers stood around, looking uncomfortable and wondering what they were supposed to do next. If Leia could use her own feelings as a judge, she would say that most of the people were wondering if they really had to burst in on Polyphemus and demand something from him. No one knew how a Cyclops would react to a demand.  
  
Britney started to hum a little. Even the smallest sound from her unfortunate mouth had the effect of large bricks on Leia's brain. Leia instantly desired a large brick, that she might inflict the same effect upon Britney's brain, but the nearest thing to her was a water barrel, which might be difficult to throw.  
  
Then,  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for?" exclaimed Odysseus. "Come on out and we'll face the Cyclops like men-and women-and.bird...things."  
  
"Oh, poo," Luke grumbled. But they all went, and took the two-foot plunge from the Flying Walkman's railing, and scraped their shins because they misjudged the distance. And then they were all on the Cyclops's Island.  
  
The last thing Leia saw before stepping forward into the fog was Gruntos, peeking out of the top hatch and waving one meaty hand at them. Then it was all dark, completely dark, and the enchanted fog all around chilled her to the bone. Leia reached out blindly in front of her, searching for something to grab onto, and found an angora sweater. Han yelped, "Hey! You're choking me!" but she wasn't about to let go. If she got lost in this, she could wander around for weeks without any food or water, and that would stink.  
  
After a few timeless minutes of tramping through the darkness, Leia was nearly re-blinded by a burst of white Aegean sunlight. Beatrice's lovely blond head was suddenly lit up until it looked almost like a halo; Odysseus's head looked like it had been set on fire. One by one the group stepped into the beautiful sunshine, until even Leia, the very last, felt it warming her face. If this had been a corny adventure movie, they would have started shouting for joy, and dancing, and leaping into the air like they were twenty years younger. This is not a corny adventure movie. They started shouting and leaping and dancing anyway.  
  
Then, somewhere along the line, some intelligent person remembered that they were on the Cyclops' Island, and that intelligent people generally do not rejoice loudly when trapped on a small island with a giant. A sudden hush fell over them as they once again remembered what they were here for.  
  
"I wonder where the Cyclops' cave is," Luke whispered. Now everyone was being extremely quiet.  
  
"Use your eyes, lemonhead," Han whispered. "Behind you."  
  
Leia looked where Han was pointing. It was a wonder she had missed it before, seeing as it wasn't exactly hard to miss. An immense set of double doors were set into the hillside behind them, with circular handles mounted two feet above the head of Beatrice, who was the tallest of the group. How the Cyclops possibly found enough oak to make his doors, they didn't know, but they certainly looked sturdy enough. The stone of the cliff walled off the rest of the fortress: it didn't look like it was going to be an easy place to barge into. Besides, without the help of Odysseus's lads, they were probably going to have to steal the Root Vegetable. An all- out assault would be suicide, and Leia wasn't going to place any bets on Polyphemus giving up the vegetable for free.  
  
Yeah. Especially since, above the giant doors, there hung a banner that  
read: POLYPHEMUS WELCOMES LORD DARTH VADER AND COHORTS TO HIS 4125th  
BIRTHDAY BASH!  
  
Arwen had noticed the sign, too.  
  
"Well, that's wonderful," she said. "Not only are we going to have to face a Cyclops, we're going to have to face the Dark Lord and a lot of hand-picked minions as well. Life just likes keeping things interesting for us, doesn't it?"  
  
"Well, it will certainly be an experience!" SOS-180 chirped, then, "Reasons to kill, she-Elf."  
  
Arwen looked at him askance. She hadn't gotten used to SOS's odd spells yet. Even Leia, who'd known him right off, was only just adjusting. It was a little creepy to wake up in the middle of the night and hear someone hiss, "Yes, we will kill the king, kill the king." But hey. Everyone had their little issues. God knew she had hers.  
  
And then, as if the situation couldn't get any more uncomfortable, a loud, nasal voice barked from behind them, "Halt! Who goes there?"  
  
Instead of halting, everyone in the group spun around on their heels to look behind them. Chugging up the slope was a group of six men, all of them tall and beefy, all of them dressed in the same dull potato-colored uniform. On the left arm of each jacket there was emblazoned a scarlet turnip within a circle. Judging by the emblems and the banner above the door, Leia guessed that they were Imperial troopers.  
  
"Hard Day's Night" was playing on her perpetual Beatles headset right now. It was her favorite song. This had the effect of making her much bolder, and more idiotic, than she would ordinarily have been.  
  
"Hello, people!" she said brightly, walking forward with her hand outstretched. The troopers ground to a confused halt. Was this the way enemy agents usually acted? "I'm Leia the Local Beatles Freak, or Princess Leia, or just Leia. Whichever is easiest. Do you like the Beatles? I do, very much; they don't call me the Beatles freak for nothing, you see. You know, your boss had me in prison for a while, and it wasn't much fun. He force-fed me canned beets-"  
  
"Not canned beets!" the leader of the platoon broke in with a gasp.  
  
"Not canned beets!" the platoon echoed.  
  
Leia nodded impressively, deciding that if she said random things at random times, she might put them so off balance that they would give in without a fight.  
  
"Yes. Canned beets. Not very nice of him, do you think. Anyway, the Beatles kept me from going insane in prison. You see my shirt? Yeah, those are the Beatles. Quite a bunch, they were."  
  
Shirt. Shirt. Leia suddenly had a stroke of genius. Everyone was looking at her as though she'd had an actual stroke.  
  
"I come from North Dakota. Where are you from? Oh, by the way, we've got laser pistols hidden up our sleeves, and we're going to use them on you if you don't do exactly as we say."  
  
We are? Luke mouthed. Han elbowed him.  
  
"Right. We need your uniforms. Quickly now. We don't have much time; God knows when the banquet will be over. Out."  
  
"But.but I'm wearing my-" Mimble-wimble, the rest of the soldier's sentence sounded like. He was rather young, and decidedly mousish, mouse- brown hair, pointed mousey nose, and shaking like a scared mouse.  
  
"What?" Leia smiled pleasantly and put her hand to her ear.  
  
"I'm wearing my Superman underwear today." The answer was barely audible.  
  
"That's okay." Leia smiled again, wondering where she was getting the inspiration for this. "All the girls will turn around. We'll have one person watch to make sure you don't run off, but he'll promise not to laugh. Right, Beatrice."  
  
Beatrice's eyebrows were level with his hairline. He still looked gorgeous, but Leia was glad she'd gotten used to that astronomical level of gorgeousness a bit, so she wasn't all over him all the time.  
  
"Ok..ay. If. you say so, Leia. Er."  
  
"Right. If you're sure he won't laugh."  
  
Flustered out of their wits, the Imperial Guards turned around and began unbuttoning their jackets. Leia motioned for the Walkers to turn around, pulling Britney's head by the hair, since she had no guarantee her orders would be followed. Britney shrieked, but Leia had the height advantage, so she couldn't do much more than curse.  
  
After a couple of minutes, Leia heard Beatrice say, "All right, guys. Thank you very much. You may run off into the wilderness now."  
  
There was a hasty scramble of footsteps. Then, "Okay, you can turn around."  
  
Leia turned around. Lying on the rocky slope were six potato-brown uniforms, complete down to the pointy hat and the boots. Leia was rather pleased with her handiwork. Now, in the press of the crowd, they might be mistaken for ordinary Imperial soldiers. She explained this to the group, who looked blank for a moment and then emitted a collective, "Ohh."  
  
Han tapped her on the head.  
  
"Lucky we got the North Dakotan," he said solemnly. "Quite the brain she's got in here, quite the brain."  
  
Then he stole her enameled hairclip. Leia grabbed his hand halfway down and forced it open.  
  
"Oh dear, sorry, must have come off in my hand.don't know how it could have."  
  
"Oh, lay off it, kleptomaniac." She awkwardly repinned her hair. "Everyone knows your habits but you."  
  
"Oh, thanks," he sniffed. "And when I'd just given you a compliment, too."  
  
"Lay off it, kleptomaniac," Luke grumbled. "And might I point out there are more of us than there are uniforms. We're going to have to draw straws to find out who get to be the human sacrifices."  
  
"I will go!" Odysseus said instantly. "Honor and death and fame and all that good stuff! What captain would I be if I took upon myself a mission and were to cowardly to see it finished.then again, you do need a person to navigate on the way home, don't you? Perhaps it would be better if I.er-hem.withdrew. Provided you don't speak of it to the lads."  
  
"Mum's the word," Leia promised. "SOS, no one will think you're a human soldier, no offense, of course. And Britney will stand out no matter what she's wearing, so I think it had better be me, Luke, Han, Aragorn, Arwen, and Beatrice. Okay?"  
  
"Rats," Arwen muttered. "I'll have to hide my ears somehow. Rather discouraging being a mutant in a normal human world."  
  
"You can say that again," Britney snapped.  
  
"Okee-dokee." Leia clapped her hands briskly. "Everyone into uniforms, and then we'll get them to let us in somehow." She strode to the pile, selected the one that looked smallest, and headed for the nearest large rock.  
  
Three minutes later, their group was composed of one red-headed hero, one half-human, and six Imperial Guardsmen, one of which was nervously fussing with her ears.  
  
"Very nice." Leia admired her handiwork with a lopsided smile. "We all look like walking turds. Arwen, if you can keep your ears covered- Aragorn, you aren't going to carry that sword into the hall, are you, its sort of a giveaway-okay, barring those things, we're all right. Lets just see if they'll let us in now."  
  
"Fair fotunes, noble warriors!" Odysseus raised a hand in farewell. "May all the Gods cast their blessings upon you. Give Polyphemus a good whack, and say that I sent it to him. I'll-I'll be going now."  
  
"Be careful, Aragorn!" Britney wailed. "Don't get yourself killed!"  
  
"Oh, do watch your backs!" SOS tried to sound sorrowful against his programming, and failed. "I hope you have an experience kill, kill, kill you all."  
  
Then the three of them trundled into the mists.  
  
Side by side the six Walkers stepped up to the immense wooden doors.  
  
Beatrice picked up a rock and banged on the door three times.  
  
"Let us in!" he called. "Polyphemus! We're late! Let us in!"  
  
Silence. Distant sounds of revelry filtered through the door.  
  
Beatrice knocked again.  
  
"Let us in, by the Universe! Or we'll huff and we'll puff, and we'll blow the hillside in!"  
  
More silence. Leia wondered if they hadn't heard at all, or if they were simply choosing to ignore the pounding.  
  
A very old commercial from her childhood in Dakota crossed her mind for no reason at all.  
  
Leia grabbed a rock of her own, banged, leaned in as close as she could to the door, and bellowed, "Get the door! It's Dominoes!"  
  
There was a scuffle and a grating of stone as the heavy wooden door swung open. 


End file.
